


What's Expected

by Machiavellibird



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bittersweet, Climb that ladder, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Long-game scheming, Porn With Plot, Queen Sansa, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sensual Play, Teacher-Student Relationship, Watch the details
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machiavellibird/pseuds/Machiavellibird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate: Margaery never came to King's Landing, so Sansa married Joffrey after all. Several weeks later, she's shared a marriage bed with the young king, but knows that neither of them are... performing properly. Fearing the worst if she can't produce an heir, Sansa turns to her friend and mentor, Lord Baelish, for advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get His Attention

**Author's Note:**

> Do pay attention to the details if you're the kind of person who likes figuring out plot- there are a few things going on as you read. But how much Littlefinger and how much Petyr is this? You decide. This is meant to evoke as well as arouse. Hope you enjoy, I always welcome reviews even if they're critical! Thanks. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Syllabus

“You called, my Lady?” Petyr Baelish stood at the threshold of her chambers, hands clasped behind his back. He was, as always, perfectly on time and perfectly in order- his hair, moustache, robes and jewels all set just so. It had long perturbed Sansa. Beauty and the achievement of elegance had always been important to her, but the way he did it-- it made her wonder whether he ever did anything that wasn’t expected of him, anything that wasn’t necessary, anything just because it felt good.  
“Yes, thank you.” She motioned for him to step inside, and he did, quietly closing the door behind him. He took a few steps inside, then stopped. He was not a man who took invitations for granted.  
“How may I be of service?” He struggled to stifle a wry smile. In the months since her engagement to the King, Sansa had come to meet with Petyr on a nearly daily basis, and it was not unusual for her to seek his counsel on the elements of royal life which still perplexed her. Their relationship had become increasingly familiar, and he found he had grown an affection for her which rivaled- if not eclipsed- what he had once felt for her mother. Since her wedding, just two weeks ago, her quests for his knowledge had come later and later in the evenings, when she knew they might speak more privately. These chats had become something of a treat to him, to be savored at the end of each long day.  
Sansa sat on the bed, long flowing emerald robes lighting the red strands she pushed out of her face now, nervous, a bit of business to stall off words. It was clear to Petyr that she struggled with what she wanted to say. “My lady, you needn’t be afrai--”  
“It’s about Joffrey.” Considering how to safely proceed with such a dangerous subject, Petyr approached her slowly, hands still clasped, eyes on the ground.  
“Surely, our young queen does not question the gift of her station… or the magnificence of her king?”  
“No, no, of course I love His Grace-” Sansa was quick to wave this off, eyes flicking up to him, visually acknowledging the code of lies they must use when speaking of the reign of the little monster. “It’s… I’m… there’s a question I have about…” she trailed off, blushing violently. Petyr sat on the bed beside her, gently slipping his arm around her shoulder in a display of care.  
“You mustn’t be afraid of me, Sansa. You are safer with me than anyone in King’s Landing. I will not betray your trust, and I will not hurt you.”  
“I know. I know you won’t. It’s just… this is so… shameful, and I--” Both of his hands pressed on either side of her jaw, lifting her face to look at him. He smelled warm, sharp and sweet- like spice berries for the mulled wine at feasts in Winterfell.  
“Whatever you have to say, I will not judge you and I will not shame you. In my line of work, I’ve seen many more embarrassing things than you could ever tell me now, and you’ve never heard of them. Because keeping secrets is what I do.” She took a breath to herself, then, in a whisper no stray ear lurking behind her door could hear,  
“It’s about… the marriage bed. I… I don’t think Joffrey… understands… how it works.”  
“Oh! ...has he lain with you?”  
“Yes, but I don’t think he’s… um… doing it correctly. I mean to say… I don’t think that we will beget any children, or that I will please him properly, the way that it’s been. I suppose… I’d just like to know what’s expected of me. If I don’t, he may become unsatisfied with me, and….” She trailed off, the implied threat of that possibility palpably heavy between them.  
“And you… you would like to know how to do it? If it’s to be done properly?” She nodded, her azul gems holding him in a dulled gaze. Though this topic was not unfamiliar to him, he would have liked to have a bit of warning before this conversation. Figuring out what was and was not wise to say, with no preparation, was harrowing even for the crafty lord. That, coupled with the fact that he could now only picture that sniveling little wretch incompetently stabbing his prick gods-know-where on poor, delicate Sansa, her beauty and grace wasted on him, like a freshly opened flower stomped under a tantruming child’s boot… a deep heat began to form in Petyr’s stomach. The unfairness of losing Cat to the Starks, and now her daughter, serenely beautiful and bright in her own right, to the tow-headed anklebiter that was Joffrey, twisted his heart. Still, he knew his place. “Well, you were right to ask me, my dear. I know just the girl to instruct you in the ways of--”  
“No, not a whore, please.” This brought a bit of a shock to Petyr.  
“Now, what do you mean by that?”  
“I know. That you keep whores, I mean. Shae told me. My handmaid. I know that you own brothels here in the city. That’s why I am asking you. Someone so… experienced with these matters... would surely be able to instruct--” His mind was reeling.  
“Sansa, I am glad you came to me, but I assure you, I have several who are excellent teachers for just this sort of problem.”  
“And I am sure they are very nice, but… I really wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about these things with a stranger. Especially with a woman… like that. I would really very much like if you would help me. Yourself. I… I trust you.” A brief silence hung between him as he weighed the potential consequences of being found out as the man who introduced vulgarity to the innocent queen (she was a terrible liar, and surely Joffrey would ask her where she had suddenly acquired the skills of pleasure), and the shining rewards of solidifying her trust in him, ensuring her safety as a useful and pleasurable partner to King Joffrey, and… (though he barely dared think it) speaking the most deliciously obscene words with a most gorgeous, coveted young thing. The latter option won out.  
“Very well, my dear, I shall be your font of knowledge.” He flashed a small grin: comforting, he hoped. “Let us begin with the problem- what exactly does our brave king do?” Sansa’s blush deepened at this, and she stared at her knees. Silence passed. He could see that she’d never get through it like this, paralyzed with embarrassment. So, he took initiative. “Does he touch you?” She nodded vigorously, still not looking up. “Where?”  
“My… my breasts,” she mumbled.  
“Not anywhere else?”  
“And, sometimes… my… my bum.”  
“Does it feel good?” She looked up at him, genuinely perplexed.  
“Is it supposed to?” He could help but let out a small laugh.  
“Yes, of course. Does he touch you… intimately? Your sex?” She’d never actually heard it referred to by name before, except in vulgarities by drunken soldiers and sailors.  
“No.” Lord Baelish looked bemused, and it almost made her shrink away again in shame. But, his next question gave her dignity back.  
“Doesn’t he try to please you at all? With his mouth, or his touch?”  
“I… I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t think he tries.”  
“Do both of you undress?” She nodded. “And does…” he searched for a delicate word, “he touch you with any other part of himself?”  
“Yes.”  
“Does he… penetrate you?”  
“I don’t think so.”  
“You’d know.” He smiled softly. “So, what does he do with it?” She looked down, paralyzed with shame again. “Remember, sweet, who I am. I have dealt with every perverse obscenity you can imagine in a bedroom. You will not shock me.” She looked reassured, though she kept her gaze trained on her lap, and answered with half a nerve,  
“He just… sort of rubs it against me. Lots of places. Sometimes down there, but…”  
“Inside of you?”  
“No. I think he thinks he is, but he’s not. It slipped in deeper once or twice, and it hurt very much- it was so dry, but he kept pushing. I bled and he thought he had done it fully. But then he just went back to rubbing, but very hard… and then he uses his hand, and…”  
“Does he hurt you to cum?” Her eyes went wide; she’d never heard such a word used anywhere near a royal court. She flicked her gaze up to him to find his grey one locked on her, unapologetic and deadly serious. Strangely, she didn’t feel afraid. Sansa felt it was not she his narrowed glare accused- it was as if it were Joffrey he stared down now, on her behalf. That sweet-warm smell, the rich spiced musk that reminded her of wine from home, burnt in her nose and ignited something deep in the back of her belly. She felt a warmth she’d never quite felt before, an urge to do something though she could not understand what it was. She liked it. She was braver with her words now.  
“No. I mean, he finishes, yes. In his hand. But he does not hurt me. At least, he’s not trying to.”  
“And he believes that he has consummated with you?”  
“Yes- he tells his mother that he’s planted his seed in me many times, and that we shall have sons soon. I heard him brag to the other boys, the day after we were wed, that he had broken my wall and had me many times.”  
“I see.” He paused, then, diplomatically, “In order to be in a position to bear his child, you must take control of the situation. In order to take control, you will have to get his attention.” She nodded, understanding. “So, do you have any idea what he likes?”  
“What he… likes?” She looked perplexed.  
“What excites him? What sort of things arouse him?”  
“I have no idea.” He let out a sigh.  
“Alright, when you’re kissing him--”  
“--I don’t kiss him.”  
“”You don’t--! Why? Has he forbid you to?”  
“No, I just…. it never really comes up.”  
“My dear Sansa, you must kiss a man you go to bed with. It’s just more enjoyable for everyone. Men not only expect it, it helps them to become aroused.” His voice got quiet and a bit husky. She had to lean in to hear him better, and that scent wafted up to warm her again. It made her feel safe and alarmed, all at once. “As well, the kiss- I mean a good kiss, a deep kiss-” He was right in her ear now, and she could smell the faint mint on his breath as their puffs fell against her cheek, “--Can unite two people. A single passionate kiss can do more to make you one with the man you share it with than an entire night of rutting, no matter how well it’s done.” He moved his face away so she could see him in front of her, and wore a small, knowing smirk. “You might start by trying that. Ought to get his attention.”


	2. Ignited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Office Hours

It wasn’t until much later, after he’d had a small-council meeting, a word with the Queen Regent and put out a few fires resulting from an argument between clients in one of his most prominent brothels, that Petyr was able to reflect on his conversation with young Sansa. It was nearly midnight when he climbed wearily into his bed. A large bed- and very comfortable, to be sure. Made of the finest cloths money could buy, and stuffed to bursting with down feathers. But a lonely one, as it had ever been. Petyr had no interest in taking his whores to bed. The prospect of being the fifteenth man that day to lie with a girl paid to pretend she liked it failed to arouse him at all. Even taking advantage of some drunk, simple woman in a tavern, wooed by the promise of his money, was uninspiring. No, he wanted- as with everything else in his life- exactly what he wanted. Substitutes meant nothing to him. And what he wanted was, as always, tumbling deep-red hair. Bright blue eyes, a wild, strong spirit, porcelain skin and a kind heart. Innocence, purity. He wanted to hold it, to cradle it, to possess it. What was new tonight was that for the first time in twenty years, the name of what he wanted was not Catelyn. 

He’d been fond of Sansa Stark since he’d met her, and serving her counsel recently had endeared her to him even further. There had been times, certainly, that he’d caught a glimpse of her in the sunlight, or she’d turned her head just so, and he could have sworn it was young Cat incarnate before him. When that happened, his breath would catch and his palms would go numb. He’d feel a sway come over him, and allow himself to pretend, just for a moment, that the girl was his old flame. But after today… something had changed. It wasn’t Sansa’s mother he thought of in the dying candlelight, it was Sansa. Young and fresh, lovely and wholly unexplored, save the uncaring and incompetent touch of the Lannister boy. Something had happened while she stuttered out her fears and failures in the bed. Her need for his protection had ignited his need to protect, while her vulnerability and trust had ignited… something stronger. It was a want, which he knew from experience with his own heart would become a need if allowed to grow and, eventually, an obsession. 

The words they’d exchanged, chaste and dull by the standards of any other conversation he had daily, danced in his head as dark, forbidden secrets between them. Her innocence made them dark; her shame made them forbidden. Of course, it was imperative that the young queen come to bear children eventually, but… for now, she was still a maid. Still waiting to be known for the first time, still waiting to be kissed, still waiting to be taken deeply, brought to her knees with pleasure, to curl her legs around a man’s back for the first time… as he drifted to sleep, It gave him deep delight to think that he was the only one to know her secret.


	3. Thinly Veiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson 1

The torches flickered along the wall as Petyr ascended the great stone staircase toward the young Queen’s bedchambers. He couldn’t help noticing the dense utilitarianism of the brick, a wartime fortress built for siege. Its true design was only thinly veiled behind silk tapestries and wrought lions, a ruse of elegant finery to steal the eye of the casual observer away from the Keep’s bloody past and severe intent. It reminded him rather of himself.   
Reaching the archway to her door, he paused to collect himself. Having been caught so off-guard with their last discussion, he’d taken the time to plan, to rehearse, this one. The next installment of friendly advice would be of his design, under his control, and see his desires met. Readied, he knocked softly.  
The door opened slowly, just a crack, and timid flushed cheeks appeared in the gap. Her wide eyes visibly relaxed when she saw it was him, and her features fell from alarm to comfort. 

“Pet-- Lord Baelish, please, come in.”

“It’s all right, Sansa. You may call me Petyr. I prefer it, in fact.” He flashed a short smile as he passed her, standing center in the room and letting her close the door   
behind him. “Lord Baelish is for servants, employees and distant acquaintances. Petyr is for friends.”

“And what about enemies?” There was a lilt, a slight tease in her voice. It was refreshing; he’d not heard her use the luxury of humor in several weeks.

“Ah! That’s Littlefinger.” This time, his grin was returned by her. 

“Right. Petyr.” Then she paused, as if reflecting, as she crossed the room herself and sat daintily on the bed. The mirth faded from her face, and the anxiety she’d momentarily forgotten returned. In the short silence, he knew his chance to begin his direction. 

“So, how has it been since last we spoke? Did you employ my advice?” She looked rather tense. 

“Not well. I did try it, but… he didn’t really seem to like it.”

“How so? A kiss from a lovely girl such as yourself--”

“I tried, I came up to him as soon as I was in his chambers,” she stared blankly ahead, remembering, ghosting the motions as she did, “And I touched his arms, so he would look at me. I leant forward to kiss him, and he stayed still for just a moment, so I did, but then he seemed to tire of it, or maybe he just didn’t care for it…”

“Show me how you did it.” 

“Pardon?”

“Use the back of your hand. Show me how you kissed Joffrey.” She paused for a moment, stunned, not sure how to proceed. 

“Here--” Petyr approached her, sitting on the bed close beside her. he reached around her shoulders, grasping her far hand in his, and lifted it to her lips. He spoke very softly now, being so close to her. “Pretend this is Joffrey. Show me how you kissed him.” She hesitated only a moment, then moved forward, lips pursed, and planted a chaste kiss on the back of her hand, as if kissing a nurse’s cheek. He chuckled slightly. 

“What?” She sounded indignant.

“That will never do. That’s the way you kiss your mother, or a friend. I’ll teach you how to kiss like a lover. Now, try again, and this time, soften your lips. Don’t make them protrude out like a stiff flower; let them open. Press them gently.” She tried, on the back of her hand again. “Better. This time, close your eyes. And when your lips meet his, let them move a bit. Part them for him, and grasp just a little. It should feel like passion, like movement-- as if you can’t quite have enough.” His voice had taken on that husky quality again, the one it’d had yesterday for just a moment. It gave her a deep chill, and she had to cover a small shake as it took her for a second. When she recovered, she tried his advice against the back of her hand. She was unsure and awkward, moving mechanically and aimlessly. Just as he’d expected her to be.   
“I’m not sure how to--”

“I know, I know, my lady. You know, I might…” he trailed off, letting her attention fall on him. “I might suggest something, and it may be a bit unorthodox, but I believe it would help. Would you hear it?”

“Oh, please, yes.” His eyes shifted smoothly to her.

“If you so desired, I could show you.” 

“Yes, that would be wonderful--” She put up the back of her hand for him. He smiled, and moved it back down to her lap. 

“No, no, not with your hand. I don’t think that’s going to help much. I mean, I will show you what a kiss ought to feel like.” This stunned her for a moment, but she seemed agreeable.

“Oh-- all… alright.”

“You’re sure?” She found her resolve.

“Yes. Please.” 

“Good. Now, remember, close your eyes. And if it helps, think of something lovely. Something delightful and comforting.” She did. Behind closed eyelids, Sansa conjured the familiar images of home: her mother (she was always careful not to remember her father, as she could not afford to lose her composure, now that she was Joffrey’s queen) her favorite places by the stream in the wood at Winterfell, that young, handsome knight who’d so sweetly given her a rose at the last--  
His mouth. There was nothing but warmth, soft lips, the scratch of his beard. Petyr’s hand held her jaw, fingers splayed from her cheek to her neck. Every image vanished, every fantasy left her, every thought disappeared. There was only his mouth on hers, prodding, pulling, somehow gentle but rough at the same time. At first she tensed, but then found herself involuntarily moving her lips along with him. She breathed his breath- sweet, bitter, full of mint and spice. His other hand found her waist, and a small sound escaped the back of her throat. Somewhere between a whimper, a sigh and a moan- she had not intended to make it, but did anyway. It seemed to spur him, and his lips forced hers further apart, diving between them more ravenously. Her mouth open, he moved his tongue to action- at first along the inner edges of her lips, then inside her mouth, coaxing her own tongue to play. She did, just a little, unsure of where to go, but he took it and caressed it with his own. He stilled her just a touch, and delivered two deep, slow movements with his lips, pulling his tongue out but using just as much passion. After the last one, his lips closed outside of hers, and held her there for two beats- stilled, eyes closed, breathe shallow, their faces not an inch apart. Then, silently, he moved away, eyes easing open. He was pleased to see he was first- she opened hers, wide and blue, a half-second later. She could do nothing but breathe, heavily.

“Is that clearer?”


	4. Mimic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exam 1

Joffrey’s quarters gave Sansa a drowning sense of unease every time she entered them. The crimson draperies and muted orange flicker of candles already had a certain hellish air, and now that she’d been made, every night for the past two weeks, to give her body to the greedy king, it bore even more fright for her. Every time, he was rougher, more demanding, more frustrated. And every time, his demeanor was more callous and hostile. He had done away with any appearance of affection by the end of the first week, and the most kindness she could hope for now was brevity.

The young queen knew that the advice she sought from Lord Baelish was, logically, necessary. But the idea of employing his instruction with Joffrey was more than daunting. She’d felt so vulnerable and open when he’d kissed her last night. The thought of allowing her husband in to that degree was terrifying. And, worse, to have to consummate her marriage, as was her final goal… Sansa had heard that penetration could be very painful, especially for a virgin, and if Joffrey’s grunting jabs at her maidenhead were any indication, the rumors were true. Still, the penalty for chastity (intentional or not) could prove far worse. So, bravely, she entered.

“My queen.” He acknowledged her with a nod, but nothing further. He was already unfastening his belt and undoing his laces.

“Your grace.” She paused for a moment, steeling herself. Then, with as much authority as she could muster, Sansa approached the blonde boy. Without waiting for his reaction, she slipped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling his face toward hers. She made sure her eyes widened endearingly at him, and she made sure he noticed. He seemed struck dumb. “We’ve been married near three weeks; I want to show my king how grateful I am.”

Within, her mind was reeling. Sansa desperately tried to bring to the surface memories of roses, girlhood fantasies, brave young knights and gentlemen at court… anything to soothe her nerves and make her bolder. Every thought she brought up slipped away within seconds… she struck at the tinder, but could not spark a fire. She could not seem to put herself anywhere but in the room with dreaded Joffrey. Determined, Sansa leaned in and caught his mouth with hers. As they connected, her lashes reflexively shut- even as Lord Baelish’s words echoed in her head: _Close your eyes._

Joffrey’s lips were wet and thin, he tasted vaguely of salt and his nose bumped awkwardly against her face. But she kept her eyes closed, and moved her mouth against him in a mimic of what Littlefinger had done to her the night before. As soon as her lips began to grasp and pull, the memory became stronger. Stern, knowing grey-green eyes steadied her. A crooked smirk ghosted across her mind, a handsome high collar, gentle but sure ringed fingers, spiced musk and mint….

Sansa was out of the game for only a split-second, lost in her thoughts and senses, and that was all it took to lose her advantage. He broke the kiss.

“I’ve never understood the point of kissing,” the boy sneered. “Waste of time, seems to me. Doesn’t get you anywhere, does it?” He gave half a scoffing laugh. “And anyway, if there is a point, you don’t seem to know your way around them well enough to find it.” She was silent, shamed. “Well, let’s get to it, shall we? I’m the king; don’t have all night to waste.” And then she was bent over the bed, her face pinned down in the pillows, with Joffrey ferociously bucking his manhood against her ass.

 

 


	5. The Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson 2

Petyr knocked softly on Sansa’s door yet again. The first two times, he’d gotten no response, even though he could distinctly hear movement in the room. He was beginning to fret. Was she alright? Safe? Ill? Was she not alone inside her chamber? Had she decided not to take audience with him any longer? Was she upset by him? Frightened? Had he gone too far during their last meeting? What if--

The door creaked ajar, and glassy blue peered out. His brows furrowed as he gently pushed the door open further. 

“Sansa, are you not well?” The back of her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut, and she shook her head. Tears streamed from her dark lashes. He entered, closing the door behind him, and slipped the fingers of both hands around her shoulders. “My little darling… what is the matter?” She took a breath, shuddering, and slowly drew her eyes open. Her azure seemed to plead with him, but her hand stayed in place- she was not yet ready to speak. His hands guided her toward a chair in the corner, and sat her down in it as he knelt beside, looking up into her face. “If someone has hurt you, know that I will--” Sansa left the chair and sank softly down upon him. Though she stood a good bit taller than he, she was much lighter and he much stronger. He had no trouble cradling her as she fell over him, sobbing. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and he eased them both down onto the floor- he still kneeling and she sitting, pooled in his arms. He held her like that for many moments, rocking her gently, stroking the cascade of fiery red hair that flooded his vision.

“It’s not going to work.” She spoke, muffled, from his shoulder. 

“What?” He angled his face down toward her, though he did not force her to get up.

“It’s not. It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m not going to please him. He doesn’t want my love, he doesn’t want my kisses, he doesn’t want… me.” Sansa looked up at her only friend. “He wants an heir. He thinks he knows how to make one, and it doesn’t matter what I say, he’s not going to listen to me. He doesn’t care what I think, what I know. He’s not going to change the way he does it every night, not at all. I will never bear his child.” 

“You are--”

“--One year. That’s all it will take. One year, maybe less, and he will stop trying. They will find me guilty of witchcraft, or something else, they will say I cannot bear children, and they will have no use for me. They will twist it into a charge of treason. One year of this, every night. And then… And then...” 

Petyr let her fall back into his shoulder, fresh tears soaking into his doublet. He held her there for a moment more. And then, quietly, he murmured into her hair, 

“No. You surrender too easily, child. You lost a battle, but you have not lost the war.” She sniffed, and looked up. 

“Do you think… you can still help me?” He gave her a very small grin.

“That was only a first trick. Sweet Sansa, I make a living getting men bedded. Did you really think I’d spent my whole arsenal?” Though her eyes were wet and red, she returned the slight smile.

“Lord Baelish…”

“...Is for employees and diplomats. What are you to call me?” Her grin spread a bit, catching her error.

“Petyr.”

“Good. Now. Tell me everything.” 

She did, in great detail. Her approach, her words, Joffrey’s stunned face (they laughed a moment at her mimic of his dumb expression) and then… when she got to the kiss itself, she felt a sudden jolt of self-awareness. She’d got to the part about keeping her eyes closed, about remembering his words, but then a blush crept on her. Her thoughts had been on him-- not his lesson, but him. She suddenly felt very foolish. This man, old enough to be her father, cared about her as one would care for a child, for a student. He had helped her out of concern for her well-being, not because of some base lust. And now, here, she’d cried like a little girl all over him. What must he think of her? What would he think of her, if he knew about the way the muscles between her legs tightened when she remembered his kiss, or the way she had to close her eyes and pause a moment whenever she smelled spice berries in the wine at dinner? How had she imagined his thoughts matched hers, that, as it was for her, he waited all day for their nighttime visits? She felt dirty, childish. An idiot. Hurriedly, she finished her story.

“What made you stop?” 

“What?”

“When you kissed him. What made you stop?”

“I never said I--”

“You had control. You walked right up to him, you were decisive, had momentum. Sweet, I know men. A girl in that position can make a man do anything she pleases, as long as she doesn’t lose her momentum. But suddenly, he had the control. So. What made you stop?”

Oh, gods.

“I… my mind went blank. I was afraid. I was thinking too hard… about my technique.”  
She was a terrible liar. Even so, he was generous with a smile and played along.

“You must learn to sharpen your focus. Before you go and see him tomorrow, you’ll practice this again and again. Find… a fantasy. Doesn’t matter what it is, doesn’t matter who it is, but it must be strong. It must fill your senses and inspire you. Build this fantasy. Create a story for it, give it a beginning, middle and end. Fill it with sights and sounds and smells. Make it real for yourself. Think on it, always. Call it up every time you feel pleasure, and every time you wish to feel pleasure. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Good. Now, choose your fantasy. It may be romance, it may be beauty, it may be… lust. But it must be a place you can always return to and it must make you feel arousal.” He paused. “Have you decided? She nodded again, although she could think of nothing. 

“Do I… do you need to know it?”

“No. Your fantasy is your own. You should tell no one.”

“I see.” That was a relief.

“Now, about Joffrey. You’re right, you know. It doesn’t matter what you say-- he isn’t going to listen. He’s stubborn, he’s brutish, and he will fight you every step of the way.” Her face fell. “Luckily, we don’t need to rely on you saying anything.” Sansa’s expression turned quizzical.

“What do--”

“A man may resist what he hears, but he is a slave to what he sees.” The lord stood, nudging her to do the same, and moved to sit on the bed. She followed suite. “I have seen many brutes, stronger and more stubborn than the little lion, moved to silent playthings with the right visual… assistance. So, are you willing to show him what you need to? Mind, you must abandon all shame and fear to do this properly. Will you do that?” Sansa nodded, albeit hesitantly. 

“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

“Very good. So, my sweet…” He paused for a moment, fingers tempeled, pensive. “Do you often… please yourself?” She looked baffled. “Intimately? With your own touch?” Now, she just looked taken aback. 

“No! Of course I--”

“Well, you’d better learn.” She was speechless. He stood. “Sit up against your pillows, at the head of the bed.” She was still a moment, then, shaking herself from her shock, she did as she was told. “Now, close your eyes. Imagine that you are alone in the room. I will not touch you, you are completely safe.” Slowly, her lashes closed. “Move your hand up your thigh. There’s no need to rush, no need to worry. There is no wrong way.” Again, she did as she was told. “Up… up… good. Feel what’s there.” She paused, unsure. “Go on. Touch yourself. It’s perfectly natural. Use your fingers, press and touch, gentle as you like. Find the place that feels best.” She prodded around for a moment, and found a spot that made her alight with sensation. She’d found it before, of course-- sometimes when riding a horse, or leaning over a table of just the right height. But she’d never been shameless enough to exploit the point herself. “Now, slip your hand under your dress. You’ll need to remove your smallclothes to do this properly.” Awkwardly, she opened her eyes and pulled at her undergarments, wriggling out of them. It seemed to take ages. Her cheeks burnt hotly. “Don’t be shamed, little darling. You’re beautiful.” His words hit her swiftly, and her eyes flicked up to him. She found an iron grey stare, hands folded neatly as ever before his waist, waiting. Somehow, his words and the voice he spoke them in did not match the reserved picture that stood over her. It made her shiver a bit. She preferred to hear him, she decided, and closed her eyes once more. Smallclothes off, she resumed where she’d left off. 

“Spread your legs apart, as wide as feels comfortable, and bend at the knees. He’ll need to see everything if you’re to hold his attention.” She did, though her dress still hung in front of her, concealing her acts from the present company, whose tone was dropping and intensifying with every word. “Now, all you need to do is what feels good. Explore, don’t be shy and don’t be afraid. Use your hands and do… whatever you want.”

“But-- how will that please him?”

“Trust me,” Lord Baelish’s voice was a throaty whisper, “It pleases a man to watch you do this.” Sansa obeyed, toying and rubbing gently. She found a groove she liked, and repeated the motion several times. The sensation was so absorbing, she was startled when he spoke again, having nearly forgot he was in the room. “Found your stroke?” Her eyes opened momentarily and found him closer, still standing, his eyes sparkling darkly. He looked like a wolf from her family’s banner. Even so, something about it… she liked. She took him in for a moment, then surrendered vision once more to sound and touch. “This is where we introduce that fantasy, my dear. Turn it over in your mind. Think of the details. Let it… take you.” 

She could still think of none, of course. Girlish things, sad things, frightening things, all came to mind quite easily. But the only thing she kept wanting to think on, which would never do of course, was… that kiss. His scent. His soft lips, his husky, lusty voice, his eyes which stared right into her, the way he moved, the way he felt, the way he… tasted. Relinquishing the battle to find a suitable, lady-like fantasy, she resigned herself to this one. It wasn’t hard-- she certainly had plenty of inspiration. “Stay with your fantasy. Push it further. What’s the next thing your mind wants to see in that picture?” Sansa thought of him-- in the room, here, watching her. She thought of what he said, “It pleases a man to watch you do this,” and wondered, any man? Did it please him? The thought of giving Lord Baelish pleasure shot a hot arrow of lust through her. What would his face look like, in ecstasy? The only naked man Sansa had ever seen was Joffrey. What did the naked body of a grown man look like? Would it be different? And what would his...she almost forbade herself think it. Almost. What would his cock look like? If it were excited, if he took himself in hand, if she somehow had that power over him just because of what she was doing now…. She began to feel a rising, steady pleasure. She moved her fingers faster, more steady. She almost didn’t notice his voice at first.

“That’s it. Faster, faster, stay in your fantasy, use your fingers…” He sat on the bed before her, on the other side of her spread legs, and their eyes connected for half a second. What she saw there was hungry. Not just hungry, starving. And then, two ringed fingers entered his mouth, eyes never straying from hers. She stopped. “No, don’t stop. I’m going to introduce something to you, and you need to tell me if it hurts, alright?” Speechless from the constricted lust, she simply nodded. 

She felt warm, wet fingers brush over the lips of her sex, and then dip just slightly, so she could barely feel more than a tickle, into her womanhood. They did it again, this time staying and applying just a bit of pressure. She stroked harder, using the resistance from his fingers to hit her pleasure spot more effectively. “You like that, pretty little darling?” Her eyes flicked closed again and she nodded. With his free hand, Petyr pressed one leg back, getting a better brace on her. His other hand slid slick-wet fingers in a little deeper, and was rewarded with her hips beginning to buck beneath him. Perspiration broke out on her brow, and her breathing became very labored. “Don’t stop now, sweet Sansa. You mustn’t stop….”

She saw her seeing him, imagined herself being the cause of his pleasure, imagined him doing the things to her that Joffrey did… her back arched, and she felt an all-consuming flame of ecstasy flood her. A small, quiet cry escaped her lips, taking the vague shape, “Lord…” and her eyelashes fluttered as she came down, shuddering and contracting around his fingers. “Yes, yes… that’s it, sweet girl.” He slowly removed his fingers, dripping her liquid, and held her waist. Her belly quivered with the last tremors of her release, before her eyes opened and looked straight up to him. He held there for a second, as if dumbfounded, then said, “Excellent. Excellent. I’ll leave you to your own in such a private moment-- just remember that fantasy. And, tomorrow night, perform like that for your king. He’ll be transfixed, I promise.” 

And then, suddenly, aggravatingly, he was gone.


	6. Physiology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Review

He could not get to the door of his study soon enough. He was flushed and out of breath when he finally did, slamming it behind him, fumbling clumsily with his belted chain. Petyr Baelish had not been so affected in years- many years, in fact. Most things simply didn’t get to him. He watched sensuous, depraved acts daily, performed by women of incredible beauty, but he never felt so much as a twitch from them. Having proven himself unshakable, he’d had little worry about tonight. While it certainly gave him pleasure, and brought him closer to Sansa and… what she had, he’d anticipated the same lack of physical complication he experienced when watching his whores touch themselves.

But Sansa Stark was no whore. His physiology seemed to know precisely how innocent, how young and pure and unblemished she was. The genuine article-- no tricks, no acts, no rehearsed words or woven falsehoods to see through. And that physiology had egregiously betrayed him. _Gods, had she seen him?_ Usually nimble fingers were slow and inaccurate, just as his feet had been in getting him here, just as his tongue had been in excusing him from her presence. _Gods, had she FELT him?_ He’d so lost himself, sitting there on her bed, one hand gripping her thigh and the other sampling her warm, velvety-smooth wetness… he’d only realized how far gone he was when the bulging evidence of his lust had nearly (or, he hoped desperately against: more than nearly) pressed against her leg. All the blood and control in his body was absent from its usual routes, having been re-focused for… quite another purpose.

Finally, the chain securing his doublet came undone. It clattered to the floor as he pulled the tunic apart, ripped at the laces of his trousers, and freed himself. He swept the papers from his desktop in one swift motion, leaning over it and supporting his weight with one hand. The other hand flew to the object of his embarrassment, wrapping its length and squeezing.

It had been months since he’d taken himself in hand, and even then it had been- as it had been for years- a dull, barely-inspired fantasy of a woman he wasn’t sure he ever had. But this, _this-_ \- Sansa’s beautiful face, tilted back, neck exposed, blissful in a first exploration of herself… her quivering body, lips dark red from heavy breathing, hair cascading down her back…

Petyr’s eyes closed as he conjured the memory stronger and stronger. He could still smell her efforts and release as it clung to the warm air around her bed, and then on his fingers. The mystery of watching her delicate hand disappear beneath her dress, knowing what she was doing but not being able to see, specifically-- that was more enticing than he’d anticipated, by far.

Seeing her wrist move, and her body respond in such wracked pleasure, her toes curling and her smallclothes discarded carelessly to the side… His pace was steady, pulling his own pleasure from himself, not wanting to rush this. He wanted to savor every memory, every component of the experience, before he was spent here.

Her panting echoed in his mind, and he began to imagine endless scenarios in which he’d be matching her breath as she did that again, her smooth body draped- or wrapped- or pressed- against his. The memory of her face- confused at first, then feverishly working, then ecstatic- at his fingers inside of her… and the fact that he’d only had to push them in so little, barely to the knuckle, to elicit that. Imagine what he could do to her with the full length of them. Or, better yet, the full length of his cock… He looked down at it, imagining it disappearing inside of her, between her legs or maybe into her perfect mouth. Oh, what he’d do, given the chance. How he’d corrupt her, fill her, twist her, ruin her, _create her, destroy her…_  he’d have her in ways the little Lannister couldn’t fathom, assuming he was ever bright enough to figure out having her in the first place. And how smooth her little pussy had pulsed around him, so tight, pressing, shaking, striving for release… He’d been unnervingly close to climbing over her in that bed (it would have been so easy, just a few movements and a second or two) and taking all of her, performing the act they danced around, tried to coax the little blonde idiot into doing. He could imagine pushing into her, building a rhythm, feeling her move with him, their fingers digging into each other’s flesh, each intoxicated with the beauty and disgrace of their lust in equal but different ways.

And just at the end, there, had she-- had her moan formed the beginnings of _his_ name? He knew it was near impossible, but in this state, for this purpose, he let himself imagine… as his hand worked at himself, he saw her lips form the word, “Lord…” and imagined it followed with his surname. He imagined her screaming it, bent over his desk here, before him, in the agony of ecstasy. Imagined her calling him by his first name as she found release beneath him, shaking as she’d done tonight, but this time with him as the source, and with his length planted inside her as she did…

It sent him over the edge. White knuckles gripped the edge of his desk as his other hand moved furiously over his shaft. His knees buckled, he let out a rough gasp, and the heat took his loins as his seed spilt messily over the desk. Built up for so long, it gushed-- to the point that he had to move several items further away to avoid them being stained-- and he shuddered to a stop, head hung, utterly exhausted. Slowly, he cleaned himself up, wiping away the evidence of his depravity, and collapsed into the cot he kept for late nights at work.

**  
**As he drifted off, he was aware that he couldn’t keep these fantasies forever. At some point, Sansa would either belong to Joffrey, or- as she had correctly predicted, though he'd never tell her so- she'd meet her end. If there was any possibility of the young king being moved to obedient lust, her loveliness paired with Petyr's knowledge had a better chance of unlocking it than anyone else. The further he pushed her, using these lessons to take his own pleasure with her, the closer she was to having no need for him. He could only draw them out for so long. But there would be some, at least. There would be more hot breath and naked flesh and reasons to say and do what he most desired to the girl, before the excuses ran out. If Petyr had been a weaker man, he might have chosen not to ponder that day.


	7. Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson 3

Sansa wore a smirk. It was the first one he could remember seeing on her. He liked it. She sat at her dressing table, hands neatly folded in her lap, as he entered the room.

“My lady,” he gave a respectful nod, an absurd show of ceremony considering their last meeting. “You look well.”

“My lord.” Both broke into a full smile, and Sansa gave a laugh.

“Well?” Abandoning his perfect posture, he strode toward her and took a seat in the chair beside hers.

“It went well. _Very_ well,” She grinned at him, “thanks to you.”

“You see? And just yesterday, you were convinced all was lost. You must learn to trust me, my dear.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry I ever had a doubt.”

“So, His Grace… responded well?”

“I’ve never seen him silent for so long!” She laughed, and Petyr followed. “I came into his chambers-- didn’t say a word, mind you-- and began to undress before he could start… you know.” He nodded. “I was up on the bed and… showing him… before he could get a word out.”

“He did not try to stop you?”

“I don’t think he knew what to do! I don’t think he’d ever seen a girl… you know, do that. Before.”

“Relief to know he was interested.”

“Transfixed.”

Petyr beamed at her.

“You have done very well. How far you have come from the frightened thing you were just weeks ago!” Now she looked shy.

“Well… anyone would have done the same. We all do what we must to survive, don’t we?”

“Not everyone does it well. And did he watch the whole time? Did you finish?”

“Yes, he watched, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, with him just standing there… he did, though.”

“In the same way he had before?”

“No, he didn’t even touch me. He just--

“Why did you not finish, yourself?”

“Like I said, he was just standing there the whole time, so--”

“I was standing here when you did it last night.” There was silence. Her mouth snapped shut and she blushed violently.

_Why could he not keep from pushing this point?_

__

“It was… it was different, with him…”

“Did you shut your eyes? Did you use your fantasy, as we practiced?”

“Yes, of course, it just… I don’t think I could forget… who he was. What he did to me. To my father--” She broke off, looking away, a glint of a tear starting in one eye. Petyr immediately reached out to cradle her face in his hand, turning her toward him.

“I am sorry. Of course. How crass of me to ask-- forgive my curiosity, sweet Sansa. Think nothing of it. Now.  We should look forward, plot your next move. Since you have earned his interest, we will need to use it before he grows bored. He is very easily bored.”

“Yes, very.”

“You will engage him physically. Do something for him that proves you know what you are doing… and that he would benefit from following your lead. This is a crucial part of the process: we must press our advantage, but not too far. Not yet.”

“You mean, not… all the way?”

“No, my sweet. Don’t worry, your virtue remains intact another day.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “But I do wonder, have you ever done anything for him…” the Lord’s gaze tumbled slowly down her face, lingering on her lips, “with your mouth?”

“But I already tried kissing hi--”

“No, no.” He bent his head, grinning to himself. Sansa had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her, albeit silently. “I mean to say, have you ever _served_ him, with your mouth?”

“I-- I don’t---” She shook her head, her squint questioning. Petyr leaned in close to her, head bent, so she could smell the mint of his breath, and his eyes drew up her body until they flashed at her own.

“Do you suck his cock, Sansa?” She was utterly taken aback.

“Do I… what?”

“Oh, you poor, innocent girl-- I expect you have never even thought of such things before, have you?”

“I… I’ve talked…with girls from the city, and…” She was clearly trying to regain her dignity, improvising what she must have thought was a knowing look.

“It will be all right. You needn’t lie to me. It is to your credit, to the credit of your virtue. Do not worry, I am here to teach you.” She nodded slightly, accepting both his perception and his offer.

“What would I have to do?”

“First, you would have to get him in a position to let you move freely without his interference. Which means you will have to do a bit of acting.”

“Acting? What do you mean?”

“With your eyes, mostly. Show him that you are in control. That you intend to do something, and he ought to let you. And show him… that it is something you want to do. In other words, seduce him.”

“With my _eyes_?” She sounded incredulous.

“That is where all seduction starts. All decent seduction, anyway. You will need to be in the right mind for it. _You_ have to feel that you are capable, that you are desirable, powerful, sexual, before he can.” Petyr stood up, clasping his hands in front of him, and paced slowly. “So. I want you to close your eyes. Picture the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. I don’t mean stoic beauty. I mean hot-blooded, sensual beauty. And now, picture her naked.”

“Mmhmm.” Sansa’s brow was furrowed in concentration.

“Picture how she moves. How she smiles. Feel the way she feels about herself. Think about how she makes you feel, how other people feel about her, how men feel about her. Now, imagine-- _know_ \-- that you are that woman.”

Eyes closed, she could hear his voice circle her slowly as he spoke. His words came from behind her now. “ _You_ are the beauty, the girl everyone watches. You are coveted. Desired. Feel their want, Sansa.” His tone dropped to a low, intimate whisper, and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. “Feel their envy. Their lust. Their _need_. Women the seven kingdoms over would do anything to be you. Men would do anything, _anything_ , to be with you. To touch you….” Slowly, fingertips crept around her shoulders and held her there. “To have you…” Her spine tingled. “They dream of you. They think of you in the dark of nights, yearn for you in the lonely cold. There are men… would betray, lie, cheat, steal… would _kill_ for you.” His voice was at her temple now, his throat so close to her ear she could hear the growl of delight in his words. “That is power.”

Practiced fingers teased through her hair, slowly drawing lines of shivering pleasure across her scalp. Sansa felt a numbness, drowned in the seductive speech he wove, as if all of her cares were very far away. “You alone are the gatekeeper. _You_ hold the key to their release, to their wildest fantasies and elations… or their utter demise.” Her head lolled back slightly as his fingernails pushed harder through her auburn strands. “You may choose their fate, at any time, on any whim, in any way. You are the a _queen_.”

Swiftly, he slid around her and onto the bed in front of her. She opened her eyes, and what he saw in them might have frightened the ordinary man. Her gaze was dark and intense, lids hooded and face stone. But he was ordinary man; he knew she was drunk on his words. A silence hung between them, although it did not seem so to her. Her neck was hot, ears ringing lowly, her vision shadowy. The man before her, whose tongue spun such sweet silk, whose languid, half-closed eyes held secrets just for her, whose musk surrounded her, filled her, enveloped her... she felt herself leaning forward, just inches. “Now, what would a girl like you do to a man she wanted to bed?” The whisper was almost too husky to be heard. Almost.

The young queen reached out a hand to the swirling iridescent elegance of Lord Baelish’s tunic, letting it trace down the fine fabric, feeling the resistance of his strong chest beneath it. Her fingertips fell, catching on the silver fleur clasps along the center as they went,, til she reached his waist. Then her hand grew stiff, and pushed him, so effectively that he had to catch himself with both hands out behind to keep from falling back on the bed. She stood, as if to make a dominating move, over him-- but as soon as she had risen, she seemed to remember herself. The intense stare dissipated into wide-eyed innocence, and the halting insecurity returned to her movement.

“What now?” Petyr elected to take a chance.

 

“Now, you would push his knees apart.” He waited, silent. After a couple of beats, she understood. Her thin hands reached for his knees, and did as he described. “And you would kneel between them.” Slowly, she eased herself down, one leg at a time. He looked down at her, obediently prone on the floor, a hand on each of his outer thighs, upturned face expectantly waiting for his next instruction. He could say anything. And in this moment, he knew, she would do it. _Anything_. He felt himself begin to swell.

_Do not be greedy. This is not the time_. Petyr Baelish understood what it was to wait, what it was to bide time and hold off desires. He had seen battles lost and kingdoms fall over foolish greed, blind ambition, unchecked lust. And what he wanted to tell her to do… that was pure greed. “Of course, I will not ask you to do this, but remember it well for tomorrow night, when you are with your dear King.” He couldn’t help but indulge just a _bit_. “You should first take off his robes or tunic, then the laces to his trousers- quickly- and then, you will get his cock out.”  By now, he knew what effect his word had on her. It gave him a slight thrill to shock her with it- to see her react to its obscenity. It reminded him how pure and virtuous she was, like fresh fallen snow that no boot had ever trod. He hesitated just a second, then decided to push further.

“You will stroke it, squeeze it, firm but not painful, the way you see him do. Play with it for a few moments. And then,” he watched with delight as her eyes widened, “begin by kissing it. The tip, the sides, gentle, wet kisses. And then your tongue- across the end, over the top, under the ridge. Lick it, tip to base, and up over the sides. And then you suck.” His words came with a slow, fluid rhythm now, as if he were reciting poetry.

“Just the head, at first. The end of it. There will be a little liquid on your tongue from him. Play with it. Let him see. Then more into your mouth- slowly, take more of it down, until he is as deep as you can get him. Never let your teeth touch- only the roof of your mouth, lips and tongue.” He looked sharply down at her, and his tone changed. “Use your hands to hold him off from taking control. Don’t let him get his hands behind your head, and don’t let him get on top of you. Do you understand?” Dumbfounded, she nodded.

“How… how long must I do it for?”

  
“As long as it takes. Until he finds release. And then, my dear,” he bent down to be very close to her face again, gently lifting her chin with one finger “you must swallow it all down. And lick your lips, and smile.”


	8. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exam 2

_The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen. The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen_. She kept time to her steps with the words as a mantra, willing them from her mind to her heart. By the time she was inside Joffrey’s rooms, she almost believed them.

When she approached him with purpose in her eyes, she saw him stop and yield. This was something very new. He must have liked her display yesterday so much that he was willing to see what she had in store tonight… which meant… _it was working_. Bolder, she locked eyes with him and began to undress. She did not hide away in the corner as she had done in days past-- rather, she stood right before him, fingers working smoothly, trailing over her body as she pulled laces and pushed fabrics. She saw him take her in, saw his hand go to his groin. She let the dress fall from her shoulders and puddle on the floor around her feet. Stepping out of it, she moved straight to him. _The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen_. One hand moved across his tunic as the other found the growing bulge, from outside his trousers. He made a small sound in the back of his throat-- the first conceit of her power over him she’d ever heard-- and it felt remarkably satisfying. Gently, she pushed him back, back… all the way to his bed. He let her move him, and his mouth hung slightly open as she began to work at the laces that fastened his clothes.

Loosened, Sansa tugged the closure of his trousers apart and exposed what had become a stiff, red piece of flesh. Just as she’d been told, she pushed his knees apart and sank to the floor between them. She looked up at him and found the young king breathing heavily, watching her every move. _Good_.

It was not difficult to recall Lord Baelish’s instruction. Every word he’d said to her the night before had been echoing in her mind since he’d said them, as they always did anymore. The calculating, measured phrases translated in her movements as her hands began to work over Joffrey’s cock-- she was proud to be bold enough to think of it like that, not as a child but as a woman would-- and she licked her lips.

Sansa kissed the very tip, just as her teacher had told her to, and her eyes shot up to gauge the King’s reaction. It was everything she’d hoped to see. She moved to the right side, eyes still on him, licked her lips slowly again, and kissed there. He shuddered. She smiled slightly, and did the same on the left. He shuddered again. Now, she extended her tongue and slid it slowly from the base of the thing… all the way… to the very end. Joffrey’s hand reached for himself, but Sansa batted it away. He seemed taken aback for a moment, but forgot his frustration when she took the end of him inside her mouth. She stayed there for a moment, sucking and letting her tongue swirl around him. She tasted something salty and wet, and remembered Petyr’s advice.

The girl opened her mouth slightly, making her tongue visible, and played a bit with the wetness. This seemed to excite Joffrey further, who tried again to reach for his prick. Again, she batted his hand away, this time more forcefully. She did not see his eyebrows furrow in frustration, nor did she see them relax again when she her mouth closed around the head of him and moved down to take more of his shaft. He let out a bit of a strangled moan- high pitched and wheezy. The sound signaled to her that he had lost all decorum, all pride, at least for the moment… meaning she must be quite good at this. _The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen._

She began to suck him down, deeper and deeper, trying her best to swallow him all. His hips began to move, stabbing his member toward her throat, and she found a sudden gag reflex she’d not known before. Suddenly flummoxed, she struggled to regain control. His hips bucked more, and she eased off of him, moving her head back to catch her breath. He growled low, and his hands reached for her. Lord Baelish’s urgent words made sense to her now: _Use your hands to hold him off from taking control._ She did, holding the base of his prick to keep it from pressing back into her throat unbidden. He allowed her refusal, though his face was riddled with a slowly building anger. He wanted more. She moved to start again, a swirl of the tongue and a kiss from her lips-- but Joffrey pushed forward, trying to press himself into her. His hands found her hair, and began to push down. She panicked- this was exactly what she’d been warned about. She shook her head, not letting him gain a purchase on her throat.

“Come… _here_ ,”  he snarled in frustration.

_The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen. The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen._ Her eyes closed, willing the grace and power she’d felt just moments before back to her. She’d begun to calm a bit when the King gripped the back of her head and blustered, “Your stupid father’s dead tongue could do it better!”

She bit. Didn’t think, didn’t warn, didn’t even really know she’d done it til it was done-- she bit down on him, hard. He howled in pain and threw her back, off of him. She hit the floor, elbows first. “You fucking bitch!” She was stunned while he examined his now-limp manhood. “You… you fucking _bit_ me!” He was weak for a moment, but she was too shocked- at his anger, at his words, at her own actions- to do anything about it. He stayed bent over, cradling himself.

Finally, he looked up. There was a strange glint in his eyes. “So. You like to play at pain, do you?” He walked to her, still slowed from his injury, but with an excitement she did not like. “You like to play at games of control?” She could not think of a response.

“I-- I’m--”

“Well.” His mouth wore a cold grin, though she thought it looked more like a dog baring its teeth than any sort of humor or mirth. “As it happens, so do I.” He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her up to her knees in one jerk. She shrieked. “But you’ve got it all wrong.” He dragged her, while her feet scrambled under her, desperate to gain a foothold and bear some of her weight. She found herself beneath the great mantle on his wall, being pushed up against it harshly. “You’re on the wrong end of things, you see.”

Sansa looked up, where Joffrey was raising her hands above her head. Two wrought iron hoops extended from the coat of arms above her, and she saw with horror that he was hooking thick leather straps through them. She began to kick and twist, in an effort to free herself. He hit her, soundly, across the cheek. She felt only heat, and then a deep, burning sting. Tears welled in her eyes as he hoisted her arms into the straps and cinched them down roughly. She hung, arms outstretched, her legs curled beneath her, kneeling weakly.

“Now, now, little bird. Don’t despair. You look so pretty on your perch.” He gave a reproachful grin, then turned serious. “Mother calls you that, doesn’t she? Little bird. Stupid name.” He stood less than a foot in front of her, bent over, and slapped her face again, hard. She felt something other than flesh connect with her skin, and realized as he drew back his hand that it had been his rings. He eagerly studied her cheek as she felt deep pain set in. “Don’t know why though. Ooh! Maybe, it’s because you’re so good at eating worms!” He barked a hearty laugh at his own joke as he took himself in hand again. Sansa was horrified to see that he was hard as a rock. She tasted something salty in her mouth and looked up, confused for a moment… then realized it was blood.

Joffrey gripped himself, and moved near her face. She was expecting him to go straight for her mouth, but he didn’t- instead, he pressed against the bottom of her cheek, where her jaw began, and slowly pushed back up toward her eye. He drew back, then stuck himself just before her lips. He smirked cruelly. “Have a taste.”

He was too close to her face for her to be able to see properly, but she saw bright red in her periphery, and was sure she knew what he meant to do. “Have. A taste.” His smirk had left him, and the anger appeared to be building again. She looked up, intending to comply, but she waited just a beat too long-- He grabbed her roughly by the hair atop her head, and slammed her back into the stone wall. There was a dull ache and her vision went a bit blurry. Two fingers shoved their way between her teeth, and pried her mouth open. The the end of his prick was pushed inside, and even though her tongue instinctively recoiled, she tasted the flood of coppery salt as her own blood filled her mouth. He smeared it over her lips, and rubbed himself against her open wound again.

She choked as the thick liquid caught in her throat, and she only just managed to swallow before he was in her mouth again. He pushed himself in as far as he could, much to her pain. He held here, as her muscles convulsed and she fought to push herself away, as if she could burrow through the stone behind her if only she pushed hard enough into it. Finally, he relinquished a bit, and she gasped an unsatisfying half-lungful of air, his cock still partially in her mouth. He began a steady rutting then, taking pleasure as she gagged with every stroke. Water streamed out of her eyes and mouth, mingling with the blood and making it fall more quickly down her neck and body. As his release rose in him, he moved harder and faster, now beginning to knock her head back against the wall in a gruesome beat. Had she not been struggling so hard to breathe, she might have succumbed to the temptation she felt to close her eyes and drift into a darkness that she was beginning to feel. With every beat, he whispered cruelties to her:

“You don’t deny me, you stupid little whore. I’m your _king_. You’ll learn a lesson, teasing me… You’ll learn your lesson… just like your father did.. I’m the king!” And with that, he came- pulling out of her mouth just in time to empty several hot spurts onto her cheeks, lips, eyelids. It slid down her face and she did not have any will to wipe it away.

**  
**Wordlessly, he undid the straps that tied her hands. He walked to the corner of the room as she slumped against the wall, and threw her dress over toward her. When she did not move, he sighed, grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, hoisted her to her feet, and pulled her toward the door. He opened it, bowed mockingly, “My Lady,” and pushed her jarringly out, throwing her dress behind her. “Come back to me when you’re pretty again. Not before.”


	9. Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Study Guide

The knock at Petyr’s door was so soft, he thought at first that it was only birds pecking at the window, or squirrels playing in the halls. But no-- it was too late for that. Just past dusk, and at least another hour to spare before his nightly visit to the young beauty he was so fond of. He’d been attending to some correspondence while he waited for his bath to cool, as he always did at this hour, in preparation for her. When the knock came again, he rose uncertainly from his desk. He was not expecting anyone, and rarely did people visit him unannounced here, at his chamber in the castle. At his offices down in the streets of Kings’ Landing would have been one thing, but this… was odd. Cautiously, he opened the door.

So horrific was the sight he was met with, it took him a moment to recognize that the gory ghoul standing in the hall was in fact Sansa Stark. She was utterly covered in mess- an open wound down her left cheek ran bright scarlet, cascading down her neck and into the rumpled folds of a dress barely fastened over her. Dark, dried red smeared across her face, cracking on her lips and sticking in her half-closed eyelashes. Her hair was wildly askew, and the unmistakable cloudy white of still-wet semen slid down her, pooling in the hollow of her neck. She swayed where she stood, eyes fluttering shut, then back open, and Petyr reached out to catch her just as her legs buckled under her.  He brought her inside, half-carrying her although her feet remained on the floor. He could find no words, and she offered none.

The Southron Lord set her gently in a parlor chair, but did not remove his hands from her shoulders. He feared she could not keep herself upright. Her head bowed forward, and he pushed it back up.

“No, no, you stay awake. Sansa, stay here. With me. Look at me. _Look at me_.” Her eyes struggled to focus on him, brow knitting in concentration. Searching for deeper wounds, his hands pulled apart the few clasps that held her dress on her, all of which were mismatched and barely connected. She did not protest, did not cover herself, did not even seem to notice.

Beneath, he found her naked. Dried blood had trickled down from her face onto her chest, but he found no other injuries there-- _thank the Gods_ \-- save some bruising on her shoulders and knees.

Petyr dashed back to the door, checking outside, but found no one near. He closed it and returned to her. The girl was still, silent, ghastly. He pushed her sticky hair back from her face, peering at her and trying to illicit a response. Her gaze followed him slowly and innacurately. Finally, he whispered, his breath heavy, “what _happened_?”

She stayed still for a moment, gave a long blink, and then dry lips moved over parched tongue. The sound that escaped her was a rasp, the ineffectual speech of one who attempted a word in their sleep. Still, he understood the single word she produced,

“Joffrey.”

The little shit, in all his thrashing and posturing, had done more than even Petyr had thought possible in one night. Her beauty was marred, he feared, forever-- her perfect skin likely scarred, her health perhaps forever altered. The loveliness of her- his loveliness, that which he had only just begun to taste the sweetnesses of…

She slumped forward in her chair again, eyes closing, and all but panic left him. He righted her face with both hands, breathless. She came back to him, slow and unfocused. A pang of deep empathy swept him and he felt the need to clear her of the evidence of her abuse. He gathered her in his arms, wrapped loosely in the fabric of her dress, and helped her to the bath meant for him. She was too tall for him to carry, but with her feet ambling to assist, he could support her. Lunging across the marble steps, he lowered her into the still-steaming pool. She cringed at first, but found that the water was less than scalding. He felt her body relax as she eased into the bath, and he sat on the edge beside her.

Wetting the soft cloth covered in scented oils and lye which had been left by the servants in anticipation of his use, he smoothed over her shoulders and breasts. The red stains it loosed billowed into the water, turning it an orange-pink tint. He rinsed the cloth in the water, then pushed it gently over her face, back and forth with barely any pressure until her ivory skin began to show through the caked blood. He rinsed and wiped, rinsed and wiped, until her eyelashes were free of their sticky bonds and her hair was again soft in the water. He took special care to clean the gash in her cheek, not wanting it to fester.

“We’ll have the nurse attend that tomorrow,” he muttered. She watched him, awareness appearing to return to her with the warmth and comfort of the bath, but still did not speak. When he had washed all of her he could, and the water had turned a dark crimson, he retrieved a clean linen from the shelves nearby. He pulled her up by the hands, her legs shaking as she tried to stand, and covered her in the clean fabric. As soon as she was upright, she collapsed into him, nearly taking him down into the red water, but he stiffened and pulled her out onto the dry floor.

“Sor… sorry,” She managed. He shushed her, and held her til she could stand again.

Together, they made slow pace toward the parlor chair. He managed to get her down into it, and found his decanter of fresh water. Pouring a cup full, he held it to her lips. At first she made no move.

“Drink,” he commanded, stern but kind. Her lips parted and some of the cool liquid passed them. Even more dribbled down the front of her, but he wiped it with the linen and made no comment. He returned the cup to her again and again, and was rewarded with small, feeble sips each time. He set it down, and stood back to look at her.

She was beautiful again, he was pleased to note. Not ruined after all, at least not outwardly. And her eyes were brighter by the moment, as if she were returning to her consciousness in shades. He may have lost less than he’d thought. With a worry, he asked, “Is he looking for you?” She shook her head. “You were right to come to me, Sansa. You were right to remember that I am your friend.” Her _only_ friend. It was a proud thought. He’d be the one she could trust, the one she’d run to. Much like Cat had done, except this time… there was no Brandon. There was no older, wiser boy who would impress her and fight for her and fix things when they went broken. No, _he_ was that boy now. That man. He would be her champion.

He bent over her, securing the linen around her shoulders where had it begun to fall, threatening to expose her. He would show her modesty now, softness and care. And in time, he trusted, she would show him… what he wanted.

Leant over her, he felt his collar abruptly tighten around his neck. Her small hands gripped the open front of his unclasped tunic where it met his chest, needy, holding him near her. He looked down and saw her knuckles white in their grasp, fists full of fabric, shaking. He put his hands over hers and they relaxed, barely. Suddenly compelled, he shot forward and his mouth connected with hers. He covered her lips in deep kisses, pushing against her but never prying her open. Her mouth was still in response-- no complicity, but no protest either. His movements pulled boldly at her lower lip, with an intensity he had not meant at first to use. He finally stilled himself, lingering, savoring her absense of resistance or shock. When he pulled back, he was pleased to see that she did not look frightened. Rather, she looked ahead blanky.

“Do you want to return to your chamber now?” She paused a moment.

“I don’t think… I… he could find me….” Her eyes fell to the side, lost now in a fantasy of what he could see was steadily rising panic. Petyr wrapped her in his arms, the fabric sliding from her shoulders to the floor as he did, and half-carried her to the cot at the side of the room. Though less than luxurious, it was comfortable, and certainly spacious enough. He helped her into it, pulling the blankets up to her chin and smoothing them over her. She watched him with careful eyes as he worked.

“You’ll be safe here, sweet Sansa” he assured her. “I promise you.” It was, of course, an empty promise. The King’s reach was no less powerful in his chambers than her own, but best to comfort the poor thing. And it was true, at least, that a wandering guard would be less likely to look for her here.

With her tucked securely in warm blankets, he went back to his desk, to the correspondence he’d been attending to when she’d arrived. He looked it over, completed a few tasks, pretended to be interested in business. All of his mind was, of course, on the pale figure breathing lightly in his bed. His ears pricked every time she stirred; the corner of his eye caught every movement, no matter how slight.

  
He masqueraded as a busy man for what might have been hours, until his candle burned low and fatigue did truly take him. He knew that she’d fallen asleep long ago, but was still stealthy as he removed his boots, robes, belts--  leaving only the soft dressing robe he wore beneath his clothing. Carefully, he crossed the room and peeled back the blankets. Sliding noiselessly beside her, he stiffened when she stirred and waited to be sure she stayed asleep before moving again. Finally, he rested his head back, snaking one arm around her lightly. In her slumber, she nestled against him-- her long, lean body curling around his side. His arm tightened around her, careful not to touch her immodest nakedness, and he drifted into his own dreams with a deeply satisfied smile.


	10. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data Collection

Lord Baelish, or ‘Littlefinger’ as he was called (a moniker which gave King Joffrey no end of amusement) was an excellent councilman. Always willing to offer help, to contribute, to comply-- he understood, as so many men at court did not, what it meant to love his King. Joffrey had decided long ago that he liked the short man with the funny little smile, who had so much useful knowledge. It was never a struggle with Littlefinger; he was a loyalist through and through, and it took no bribing or convincing to win his support.

**  
**

The aged lord was smart, to be sure- but his true wisdom, Joffrey knew, stemmed from the fact that he understood who was smarter than he, and knew when to bow to them. He had the sort of intelligence that served someone of common birth so well: that which knew its place in relation to the superior intellect of the highborn and the Gods-anointed King. In truth, Littlefinger was quite a simple man.

**  
**

For these reasons, Joff enjoyed confiding in him during long strolls on the grounds. This morning, the young Lion had taken his friend’s offer to tour the fruit trees of a small courtyard near the edge of the castle wall. The man picked a plump, dusty black fig off of a low-hanging branch and handed it to him with a smile.

**  
**

“How fares your little brother, Tommen? Is he a good little prince?” He was asking. Joff rolled his eyes as he took the fruit in his fingers.

**  
**

“Same as ever- soft, simple and childish.”

**  
**

“He does not have his brother’s wits,” offered Littlefinger.

**  
**

“Oh, no, not at all. He has no hardness, you know? He does as he is told always, without so much as a question. Never thinks for himself, never puts them in their places, he just--”

**  
**

“Whom?” Joffrey paused, annoyed to have been stopped mid-complaint.

**  
**

“What?”

**  
**

“Whom does he never put in place? To what great powers does the boy answer?”

**  
**

“To anyone with a voice! Mother, the guard, the scepter-- the nurse-- anyone!”

**  
**

Littlefinger considered this response.

**  
**

“He was not born to be King. Perhaps he does not possess your understanding of the appropriate hierarchy.”

**  
**

“No, and thank the Gods. He doesn’t understand power or respect. He thinks everything would be splendid if there were no judgement, no punishment. He can’t see the cost of kindness. He can’t see what would happen if everyone were let to do as they pleased, with no fear, no accountability. He’s just a stupid little boy.”

**  
**

“Truly, he is only a child. And you so wise beyond your years… he lives in your shadow. And your Queen Mother? I have not seen her at court these past few days. Is she well?”

**  
**

“Of course. Well as ever. She’s holed up talking with Grandfather about some appointment or other, or something. All she ever talks about any more is heirs. She’s like all women-- all she wants is babies!” Joffrey laughed at his own joke, something he’d heard sparring knights jest many times. His companion gave a small smile, but did not seem to share his humor.

**  
**

“Your grandfather must feel the same-- the realm should see you as a man grown, and your trueborn heir must be secured. We couldn’t have simple Tommen falling into the role, Gods forbid you be called away on some campaign, or…”

**  
**

“Or what? You think I’m going to die, is that it?” Joffrey halted, turning to confront this suspicion. His words prickled with accusation.

**  
**

“Not at all, your Grace. Of course not. There are many reasons for a King might need an heir, and most of them do not involve death.” He bowed his head in deference, and the boy was satisfied. He resumed the pace of the stroll.

**  
**

“Mother thinks Sansa should have been with child already.”

**  
**

“You have seeded her?”

**  
**

“Every night,” boasted Joff, flashing a grin. “Lannister men are all lions, you know. Especially with our women.” Littlefinger smiled back at him.

**  
**

“I can only imagine your ferocity.”

**  
**

“She plays at discomfort, but she loves it. All women do, don’t they, old man?” The king clapped him on the back. “Don’t have to tell you, do I? You keep all those girls, you know their ways.”

**  
**

“Ah, yes. Deep down, all women really want a man who takes control of them.”

**  
**

“Put them in their place, use them like a girl ought to be used, and they’ll love you for it.” He gave a knowing chuckle. “Am I right?”

**  
**

“Could not be more. Truly! Well done. And yet… you say the Queen is not yet quickened with child?”

**  
**

“No,” Joffrey’s expression turned to one of concern.

**  
**

“Why, do you suppose?”

**  
**

“I think she must be refusing to. Some kind of witchcraft or ritual, one of those things women tell each other that never reach men’s ears. I am considering having her questioned before a court.” Littlefinger seemed to suddenly stiffen.

**  
**

“Do you think that is wise, your Grace? Sansa is so young and gentle still, and you know how such things can end…”

**  
**

“Yes, of course I know. But what good is a wife to me that will not bear children? No use keeping her anyhow if she refuses to produce.”

**  
**

“I think you underestimate your own persuasiveness, your Majesty. Surely, there are other ways for a King to get what he wants.” He gave a crooked little smile. “And, other ways to make sure that no… rituals… are taking place.” The man’s hand went to his pocket, and emerged again in a fist. He reached out covertly, looking in the opposite direction, and slipped a tiny vial of liquid into Joffrey’s hand. “Make sure she’s lying somewhere soft,” he advised quietly. The Baratheon giggled.

**  
**

“I can think of a few games to play with this toy.” Littlefinger looked back at him, just a half-second too quickly. Luckily, Joffrey did not see.

**  
**

“Of course, your Grace would never want to do anything too drastic to the girl. No sense in cruelty. Anyhow, no one wants an ugly queen, or a crippled one. And it is rare, even in King’s Landing, to find a lady of such grace and beauty--”

 **  
**“Such concern for Lady Sansa, my man. Gods, you sound worse than Tommen! I’d almost guess you had a little affection for her… is that right?” Joffrey’s voice was all in jest now, poking fun at the silly, simple man. “Do you have a keening for our Queen Baratheon? Hmm?” He threw back his head and laughed, an absurdly funny thought occurring to him. “Perhaps she’ll grow tired of her royal bed and come to warm yours! Yes, just think, the luckiest girl in the realm might abandon all her finery for a chance to sit on the Mockingbird’s lap, and bounce like one of his whores!” The man matched his laughter, the gardens erupting with the sounds of their mirth.


	11. Gods & Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thesis

“Lady Queen,” the whisper came urgently-- the heavy lilt of a lowborn raised in poverty. “Lady Queen!” Sansa slowly opened heavy eyelids, and blinked hard against glaring sun. Where was she? She put her hands to her eyes as the shape of a woman came into focus above her. Her head was pounding and she squinted to see the face in the silhouette. “Miss, yeh must git up!” The girl struggled, her vision swimming and an ache fully thrumming in her forehead.

“Who… who are you?”

“Never yeh mind tha’, I’m jes’ a messenger, M’lady. Yeh must git up offa tha’ floor!” She pulled herself up into a sitting position, rather lost. As she took in the world around her, she realized that she sat in the outer hall of the castle-- outside of Joffrey’s chambers. It must have been mid afternoon- a hazy sunlight came down through streaks of white cloud, illuminating everything in the silvery light she’d grown to know in this coastal summer.

“How did I get here?”

“Dunno know, Miss. Jes’ found yeh,  lyin’ ‘ere, sorry as can be, an’ no one around… Yeh coulda been trampled! Er worse!” Sansa attempted to get to her feet, but found her legs rather weak beneath her. The woman, of middle age and dressed in dull beige cotton, reached out a hand to help her up. The queen took the assistance gratefully.

“I… I don’t remember anything. I know that I went to see the King last night. And we shared a goblet of wine, and then… I remember being quite tired, but I don’t remember leaving, or lying down.” She squinted hard, fingers massaging her temples.

“Headache, Miss?”

“Yes, pounding.” The woman shook her head, tutting.

“‘at’s it, arright. Sounds like yeh got slipped a li’l sumpin’. ‘Appened ta me once, never did find wha’ bloke it were. Yer lucky though, Miss. Looks like ‘oever it were didn’t do nothin’ too ugly to yeh. At least ‘ad the decency ta gussy yeh up after.” Sansa looked down, and indeed- it did appear that someone had done up her dress from the outside. Someone without much care or practice: the laces were pulled too tight here and too loose there; the clasps were mismatched and the shift did not sit properly on her. She tugged the dress better in to place.

“Are you saying… someone _poisoned_ me?”

“In a manner a’ speakin’, yeah. Wouldn’t call it tha’ so often, though… it’s the kinda poison a man uses when ‘e don’t wanna hurt a girl, necessary…. but ‘e ain’t lookin’ fer her ta remember wha’ ‘e done to ‘er, neither. Sorry teh say, Miss, bu’ I’d be willin’ teh wager yeh been ‘ad by a bloke yeh ain’t meant teh be ‘ad by.

“...Rape?” The woman gave a gruff laugh,

“Righ’, when yeh got money, ‘at’s wha’ they call it. Rape.” Sansa was a bit taken aback.

“And if you don’t have money?” The woman shrugged.

“Bein’ in the wrong place a’ the wrong time. An’ bein’ female.”

“But that’s awful!”

“No, ‘at’s life. Now come along Miss, yer an impor’an’ girl an’ ‘oever did this to yeh ain’t gonna be wantin’ teh hear yeh figure it ou’.” Sansa’s face darkened.

“I think I know quite well who did this. And I doubt he’d care who knew.”

“Either way, I got orders teh get yeh down teh the courtyard. Yer friend is wai’in’ fer yeh.”

“My friend?”  The woman offered no further explanation, turning and leading the way down the hall.

“Come on, Miss.” Sansa followed quietly, still blinking the sleep and substance from her eyes. Each step was heavy, but now that she was upright, the headache wasn’t quite so bad. Though their travels were not far, it took longer than the Queen would have liked in this condition. But she was hardly in a position to complain; this woman had saved her from embarrassment, injury, or possibly worse. As they walked, she became aware of a pain around her wrists. She pulled up her sleeves, and found dark strips of bruises there, wrapping the circumference of them. These were not the same bruises she’d got two nights before, when her husband had hung her by her hands in his chamber. These were newer, fresher, overlaying the ones left previously. She could not remember obtaining them.

Finally, after a few twisting, turning hallways, they were in the main courtyard. There, seated on one of the stone benches under a flowering fruit tree, was an impeccably poised man in a rich, tailored coal grey robe with a silver mockingbird at his throat. He rose as she approached.

“Petyr!” She could not contain her smile, and her heart warmed when he returned it. Like a young girl, her feet picked up a pace that neared a run-- except that she was a lady, and ladies never ran-- until she reached him.

“Your Grace.” She would nearly have forgot herself and thrown her arms around him in a hug, but he reached out for her hand and she stopped just short as he kissed the back of it. “I was beginning to worry-- it took Moeira longer than I’d expected to find you.”

“Well, she found me on-” Sansa turned back toward her consort, intending to congratulate her on the thorough search she must have conducted to find her queen in such an unusual place, but she’d vanished. “Who was that woman?”

“Moeira is just a messenger of mine,” Petyr waved it off. “There are many like her on the grounds.”

“She found me in quite an _odd_ place.”

“Odd?” Sansa lowered her voice,

“Outside. By Joffrey’s chambers. On the ground.”

“On the ground? What were you doing there?”

 

“That’s just it: I don’t remember. I woke up like that, and my dress all undone… I think….” She leant in now, whispering, “ _I think he tainted my wine_.” Baelish’s brow shot up.

“My sweet, that is a heavy accusation, are you--”

“My head is pounding. I have no idea how I got there. The last thing I remember is drinking a goblet of wine- a single cup- and being very drowsy. And, when I woke up, I’d been dressed by someone else.”

“That… does sound like it. You are sure you had only one cup of wine?”

“Absolutely sure, yes. And look--” she pulled her sleeves up as far as she could, til they were stopped by this thickness of her forearms. “These are new. They weren’t there yesterday. I don’t remember how they got there at all.” The Lord took her hands gently, examining the bruises.

“You poor girl… last night, before this, did you lie with him?”

“I don’t remember, but if we did… I don’t feel any different, you know, down there, so--”

“Walk with me, Sansa.” He held out his arm for her to take, and she did. “Pay attention to the path we take.” He led her along a row of rose bushes, leading toward a stone wall the height of a man. His pace was so brisk as they neared the wall, she feared for a moment that they would run right into it. But then he took a sudden turn to the left, pulling her with him, through a crack in the hedge her eye would never have picked up. The space they occupied was close now, not meant for the pleasant wanders the gardens afforded most lords and ladies. The path was thin, made for only one set of feet to pass at a time, and the trees and bushes grew up intimately alongside it, at times connecting overhead in a crowded canopy of leaves and branches.

He moved so quickly, she struggled to keep up. Roots tangled up from beneath her and she nearly tripped several times; branches hung low from above or reached out to snag her from odd angles and attempted the same. She cursed, for the first time, that she was not more like her sister: boyish, strong, made for running and dodging and ducking. They came to a four-pronged fork in the path and the long grey coat she followed took the far left one. Another further on, and he took the far right. Another still, and he took the center-left. They lept across a small dry creek, landing on smooth boulders, Finally, he slowed and stopped, Sansa huffing and puffing and grateful not to be running any longer. He turned to her; his cheeks were flushed, but he barely looked winded. Then reached out one hand and pushed back a veil of moss she’d assumed was a dead-end. He held it up and indicated that she step through. She did, and found herself transported.

Beyond was a place unlike any she’d ever seen.  Through a heavy overhang of vibrant green, which cast cool shadows over the entire clearing, rods of misty sunlight shot down to packed earth underfoot. Crumbling pillars of smooth marble were woven with ivy and moss, and flecked with gold that seemed to reflect fire, illuminated by the silvery white sky. Great white elm trunks surrounded them, roots pushing up through cracked pieces of foundation laid to a structure no longer standing. Statues and half-statues of strange creatures, mythical beasts and important figures from a history she’d never heard were covered in reeds and flowers, and in the center of it all was a fountain- or what had once been a fountain, now just a pool of green-blue in a grey marble basin, upon which floated great white lilies and long trains of reeds.

“What… what is this place?” She breathed.

“The Red Keep was not always the castle of this land. It was a great fortress, built by the Targaryens in wartime, to withstand a siege-- and that’s just what it’s done. But long ago, before Aegon and his dragons took Westeros, before the Seven Kingdoms were united into one, this was the palace of the Crownlands. It was built by the arcane masons, all of marble and laced with true gold. These--” he indicated the statues and busts of grotesque and resplendid wonder-- “are gods and monsters of the ancient men, heroes from wars long forgotten.  Though most of the old walls have been destroyed by time and enemies’ swords, there are a few places in King’s Landing where they still stand, if you know where to look. But almost no one does.”  

Sansa moved as if in a dream toward one of the pillars, mouth agape. It was utterly beautiful, and around the base were etched figures of an ancient language she’d never seen anything like.

“Can you read this?” She put her face close to it. Just then, a wisp of cloud moved and a shock of sunlight hit the pillar, making the gold ribbons therein scream light back at her. She jolted back as Lord Baelish laughed softly.

“No. I doubt anyone alive today can. But they say…” He drew up behind her closely, putting one arm around her waist and appearing in her field of vision just over her left shoulder, “that the gold in these pillars is imbued with an ancient magic, so strong and so deep that even our Gods are no match for it. That’s why, even after all this time, these ruins have never been sacked or pillaged.” She looked at him over her shoulder,

“Because of the magic?” He shook his head.

“Because of the superstition. If you pay attention, my dear, you will find there is nothing so strong in the world as men’s beliefs.” She sat with that thought for a moment, then turned to face him.

“So, why did you bring me here?”  

He regarded her for a long moment, then his hands left her waist and he took a perch on one of the low smooth stone walls- some ancient lord’s window.

“What you suspect of Joffrey is a dark thing. If it is true… a man who would seek out poisons and drops to have his way with a woman is the most dangerous kind, worse even than one who would brutalize her outright. In the houses I own, such men are exposed and punished most severely, and for good reason. I do not know which maester helped him to come by that tincture, but if I find out….”  He trailed off, eyes blinking hard in quiet anger. When he opened them again, they regarded her directly.

“Sansa, you have come to be very dear to me, personally. You must know that. Of course I admire you and appreciate your company, but also… I want more than anything to keep you safe. Do you feel safe with me?” Touched by his admission of sentimentality, she approached and sat beside him.

“I do,” she confessed, “In fact… the only time I feel safe anymore is when I’m with you.” He gave a small smile.

“Good. You know that you will always have me to return to, when you are free of him for the night. But, knowing now what depths his depravity runs to, I fear that will not be enough. So, if anything happens, if you feel that he will hurt you worse than you can bear, or you believe he means to give you more drops, you flee and come here. Do you understand?” She nodded. “You saw how confusing the path here is, how easy it would be to lose a pursuer through all the twists and turns and forks. Just on the other side of that wall of trees--” he indicated a space to the far end of the clearing-- “Is a wall to the city. Beyond is a nameless street, and beyond that, a back entrance to my business office. I sleep there often, and I will leave my window open so that if you scream, I will hear you. There is little I could do to protect you within the castle walls, where the Kingsguard waits by, but here, in the middle of no where… Joffrey is just a man. And I can stop him as I would any other man who would rape a girl.”

“My lord… thank you.” Her eyes were wide with fear at the thought of what Joffrey was capable of that he had not already done to her, and with a rush of emotion for this man who would risk so much to help her.

“This is a safe place, Sansa,” he said, surveying the glimmering pool of the old fountain. “This can be _our_ place.”

She liked that. She’d never had a place of her own, since she’d arrived in King’s Landing. Even her own quarters were run by someone else, ever under the watchful eyes of handmaids and servants except for a few late hours, when Lord Baelish had typically called on her.

“Our place,” she repeated. He smiled, crooking his head to see her face.

“Pity it’s come to this. You came to the Crownlands looking for gallantry and romance, and fairy tales… and you found Joffrey. It would have been so much better if it were just young Tommen.”

“Tommen?” She was truly surprised. “He’s only a child!” Lord Baelish shrugged.

“A child, yes, but a sweet child. A good child. They say he believes in a world with no judgement, no punishment… that he sees no cost to kindness. He would have been a better match for you, when he came of age.”

“It wasn’t Tommen wanted to marry me,” she said sourly. “It was Joffrey.”

“A Baratheon wanted to wed a Stark, that’s all. It would not matter whom or which. If it was not one, it would be the other. The family would have you married in one way or another.” She paused, thinking.

“I suppose I could have got used to a child, sooner than a monster. It would be rather like living with a little brother.” She was wistful. He smiled.

“Ah, if only, if only. You might form a friendship with the young lad,” he quipped. “Just in case.” He winked. Sansa laughed.

The sun was beginning to go down below the haze of the coastline, and a chill wind picked up. Garbed only in summer silks, the girl shivered. Petyr put his arm up, offering to warm her with it. She accepted, huddling against his side as he draped a hand over her far shoulder. His spice musk mingled with something delightful and invigorating in the air, and her senses alighted. She sniffed, detecting.

“I think… it’s going to rain soon.” He nodded.

“Late summer storm coming, to be sure. But they travel slowly here, and you’ll smell them long before you see them. I wouldn’t expect it for another day or two.” They gazed at the grey swirls in the sky above for a time, and when Petyr looked back toward her face, he saw that she was far, far away. Her eyes reflected endless stretches of purple and yellow fire sunset. When she spoke again, her voice carried a distant sadness.

“What if I never carry the King’s child? They won’t send me home, will they?”

“I wish I could tell you they would. But my sweet, it pains me to say… the word is that the Queen mother has already ordered you stand trial for witchcraft and treason if you do not conceive within a month. You must act now.”  She looked at him, fear flooding her.

“But… _how_? I’ve tried everything, he’ll never listen to me, he’ll never respect me, it’s even worse now than it was before… I don’t know what to do any more, I may as well give up and accept--”

“Sansa,” he said softly, leaning his head over to nestle hers in the crook of his neck, “it is to my sorrow that I misjudged your husband’s cruelty and the impregnability of his heart.Tomorrow, we will finish your lessons- no more games, no more strategies, nothing but the bare mechanics necessary to put his child in your belly and keep you safe.” She made no sound, but he felt her tremble against him, and knew that she was weeping softly. Her voice was watery.

“I don’t even think I could love his chi--”

“Shhh,” he cooed, “we all do what we must. And you must be with child in a month.”

The smell of rain, and the smell of him, gave her strength. If she could just stay here forever, she thought, and live in this old ruin of the ancient castle with its ancient gods, far away from all the twisted lies and webs and plots of the Red Keep, she could be happy.


	12. Study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Field Work

Late summer storm, indeed. The clouds had been gathering overhead since dawn, falling in line like great billowing riders readied for battle. The air was still heavy and warm from the season, leaving a lingering moist heat to embrace the Eastern edge of Westeros. Though many men complained of the humidity, Petyr found he rather enjoyed the weather. It was new and different, and felt of far away. He liked things that were new and different. He’d never developed a taste for repetition or simplicity. It was one of his flaws, he knew: he was incapable of loving anything as much as he loved impermanence.

He’d always envied those of small mind, easily contented, and happy with their contentment. How lucky they must be to get what they want, and keep it, and be _satisfied_. Not him. Never him. Well… save his taste in women. All his life he’d pined for Catelyn Tully. One woman, one face haunting his dreams, one desire driving his grasping attempts at love. Near twenty years of devotion. And if she’d been his, he knew, he would have been ever-faithful. He would have adored her, doted on her endlessly, shared all his wealth and the benefits of his station with her.

But now there was a new one, to replace the old. Sansa had turned his head and kept it turned-- and small wonder. After a lifetime of being rejected by one beautiful Tully, another- younger, prettier, sweeter- had fallen into his lap. He’d not thought on her mother in _that_ way since he’d begun their secret visits in her chambers, and the night he’d brought himself to pleasure after watching her do the same, he knew he’d never go back. He knew he’d never be her husband; her potential was far too great to be wasted on a man of his station. She was Queen of the Realm, and Queen she’d stay. But the relationship he enjoyed with her was quite satisfying in its own right, and the Gods knew matrimony had no monopoly on love or its sisters, passion and devotion.

Today was one of high anxiety. It was the final preparation, the last step on her journey to learning how to become a woman. If he didn’t play his hand well, if he misjudged her, if he misjudged Joffrey, if something went awry, if, _if…_ this might be the last time she’d need him for anything so salacious, the last time he’d have a reason to be so intimate with her. But Petyr Baelish did not often misjudge people. And if things went to plan….

Petyr heard her approach long before he saw her- soft footfalls, light breaths, then the moss curtain was pulled aside and she emerged. The silvery sky seemed to make her auburn hair glow like hot embers spilling out from beneath a grey-blue hooded robe. Her face was particularly exquisite today, more fresh and well-rested than she’d been last he’d seen her. Her eyes swept the clearing, enchanted with its beauty, and found him. She smiled.

“Petyr.” He came to her, arms oustretched, and wrapped her in a close embrace.

“Sansa. You found your way back without trouble?”

“A bit,” she admitted, “I took one wrong turn, but I realized it before too long. I think I’ve got the hang of it now.” He held her at arm’s length, studying her.

“I will not mince words with you, my dear. There are no more games we can play, no more teasing the boy. The longer we wait, the more dangerous he becomes. Today you will learn the final trick. The only trick. Are you prepared?” She nodded, solemnly.

“I’m ready.” He said nothing, but took her hand, turned, and started toward the edge of the clearing opposite the way she’d come in. His pace was slow, somewhere between leisurely and foreboding.  As they passed through the trees, he turned briefly to her,

“Put your hood up,” dropped her hand, and cut through a small footpath before her. Around several trees, through a hidden gate within an alcove, through a short, crude tunnel and up to the daylight in a dirt alley behind unmarked buildings. As they emerged, he said quietly, “Do not speak,” and assumed a steady pace just behind her left shoulder. At first she tried to match her pace to his, so that they would walk side by side. But every time her feet altered tempo, so did his- until she stopped trying. She fell into a quick clip to match his, just in front of his right side. He would escort her into the city.

King’s Landing-- the part not peopled with noble families and royal guards-- was not a soft place. It was cruel, ugly, dirty and dangerous, and Petyr was a true lord of it. As they passed through the streets, heads bowed and hands shot nervously to pockets. In the streets near his brothels, people began to acknowledge him by name- “Lord Baelish,” curtsying and nodding. As they walked a girl deposited a purse of coins into his hand without a word and continued walking. A man did the same with a stack of notepapers. This was all commonplace for him- the way business was done. But all the while, he watched Sansa out of the corner of his eye and saw her surprised at each encounter.

When he strode into the front door of his business, he was greeted by five girls in revealing silks, informing him of the day’s take and asking to serve him in any way they could. Two men waited in the front room, asking for a moment of his time and he waved them off, telling a boy waiting by the door to schedule their business for another day. His ward’s eyes were wide. Finally, in hushed confidence, she whispered,

“I didn’t know… you’re a very important man,” to his side. He smirked.

“I am a very _busy_ man.” He straightened as another associate approached, informing him of an impending visit from a rather rich Braavosi merchant. “Speak to me later,” Lord Baelish dismissed him. “I have personal matters to attend now.” The man disappeared, as did two more men and three women before they’d passed through the long corridor to his private office. He shut the door solidly behind them, latching it. Sansa was still silent beneath her low hood. At the large oak table in the center of the room, Petyr casually poured two cups of wine, offering her one. She blanched. “Apologies, my lady-- I imagine you’ve never been to a brothel before?”

“No.”

“You can take that hood off now, you’re perfectly safe in here. I assure you, no one guesses who you are.” She undid the clasp, and let the cloak fall away just as he moved behind her. He was taking it out of her hands before her fingers could grasp it, and he could see the look of odd wonder tugging at her face.

“You… you manage this place? All of it?”

“And then some,” he smiled. “I manage more of what you can’t see than what you can.” She straightened. He liked it. She was in the presence of someone who commanded more respect than she’d thought, and she was reverent. Her cloak draped over a chair to the corner, he again offered her the wine. This time, she took it. “To… education,” he suggested. Their glasses clinked and they drank-- she squinting a bit, still not accustomed to the taste of wine. So _virginal_.

“Come, let us begin.” He set their glasses down, and took her through the door in the back of his office, leading to his hidden hall. From there, he could look in on any of the rooms in the house, wholly undetected. He used this to monitor his clients and his whores- both often needed... guidance. He walked slowly down the narrow, dark hall. Past an empty room… one he knew was being used by a gentle young man fresh from the stables… one where a recent hire was being trained up by her new sisters… one housing a knight with a predilection for young boys… and stopped in front of pretty, raven-haired Gwenna’s room, wherein, he knew, lurked Bojin. Bojin was a violent hulk of a man, notoriously drunk and difficult. He was a brutal sellsword, and sometimes it was difficult to tell whether it was his kills or his women who were more unlucky.

Petyr looked through the viewing window and found, happily, that the session was just beginning.

“Come; look.” He motioned for his companion to join him at the window. She did, and he stepped back to give her the full view. As Sansa peered into the room, draped all in burgundies, golds and blood reds, he spoke behind her ear in a hushed tone. “This is Bojin. He is drunk today, so you’ll see how our Gwenna will help him and work to keep control of him. It will be something like what you can expect from Joffrey.”

Within the room, Gwenna was peppering Bojin’s ugly face with kisses as she untied his leathers and pulled his shifts from him. Petyr felt Sansa’s breath suck in when the hulking man’s naked form was revealed. It was nothing beautiful- more like a bull than a man. But once he was bare, Gwenna dropped to her knees before him and used her mouth.

“Watch her eyes,” Petyr whispered. “She is always looking at him, always gauging him. She needs to know when he wants this and when he’s bored. A skilled lover anticipates the next move.” True enough, Bojin’s eyes began to wander. Gwenna saw it and began to rise when her mate rumbled a complaint and, in one quick motion, placed a giant hand on Gwenna’s head to push her back down to her station between his legs. He then thrust brutally into her mouth, hand never leaving the back of her head, until she gagged and spit up on him. He laughed. Petyr tutted. “She should know better. He always likes it deep. Learn what to expect.” From behind her, he could see the side of Sansa’s face, uncomfortable with concern and fear.

After several unpleasant minutes, Bojin let her go. Gwenna was on her feet in a moment, pulling him toward the bed. “Never miss a beat,” advised Petyr. “See how she is always one step ahead of him? You must be. No matter what he does, be ready to make the next move first. Break his momentum if he has any.” The whore was coaxing him on to the bed, wiping her mouth as she went, and climbing atop him. She wet her fingers in her mouth, and grabbed at his failing manhood. “It’s limp because of all the wine he’s had,” the lord explained. “You may have the same problem with your husband. Always try to get on top- you can maneuver much better up there.” Perched on the balls of her feet, Gwenna was angling the great bull’s half-erect member toward herself, stroking it and trying to get it to penetrate her.

“Is it… in?” Whispered Sansa, eyes never leaving the spectacle before her.

“No. See how she’s rubbing it against herself? She’s trying to excite him. Simulating the act can often lead a man to perform the act. Joffrey’s got the first part right.” He gave a small smirk, but Sansa was either too tense or too distracted to catch his quip. Holding Bojin still, the dark-haired beauty began to lift and lower herself above him, in a slow rhythm. “Ah, it appears the fish has a bite. Now, watch how she is slow, deliberate- so as not to lose him before he’s entered fully.” Finally, the girl seated herself firmly in the bull’s lap. No sooner had she planted herself there than Bojin was throwing her off of him, grasping her roughly and pushing her over onto her belly before him. He spread her legs wide with one hand, holding himself in the other, and pushed into her from behind. He then grasped her hips with both hands and began a rutting so forceful and violent, it looked as though he’d split her in half. Her hands grabbed desperately at the blanket beneath her, trying to steady herself, and and her head was thrown back and forth til it looked like her neck might break. As her whimpers turned to screams of agony muffled in the rust-colored pillows, Sansa turned her face away and into Petyr’s shoulder, just behind her.

“I don’t want to look,” she pleaded.

“I know, poor sweet, but you _must_.” He closed the space behind her, pressing his chest to her back, and his hands found her waist. When she still did not look back at the little viewing window, he said, “You are a kind, innocent girl, and it is to your credit that you cannot bear to see misery. But this is what you must prepare for if you plan to bed Joffrey. This is what it will be like.” Steeling herself, she turned her head back toward the carnage. By now, Bojin had lifted the poor girl’s legs off the bed so that he held her like a wheelbarrow, and his grunts were louder even than her cries. “When you take him to bed, remember to always wear your hair up in a tight braid,” Petyr whispered into the back of her neck, soft auburn strands teasing his lips.

“Why?” As if to answer her question, Gwenna was grabbed by the hair and her head was held aloft as her assailant let one leg fall out of his hand. Her shriek had a gurgle to it as she struggled to reach the bed with her hands so she could breathe again.

“Much less painful when he holds you by it.” Sansa shrank back against his chest, and her escort found himself half an inch from the curve of her long, elegant neck, alabaster flesh raised with alarm. It was strangely nerve-wracking, as if he were afraid she’d feel the heat of his breath and know his longing.

Finally, Bojin’s grunts began to come more sporadically, louder, and he gave several long thrusts with an unmistakable finality to them. “Now, our man is about to cum. If Gwenna wanted his seed to fill her and take, she’d let him finish just where he is now. But, since no one wants to mother that giant’s brood, she’ll have him spent somewhere else--” as he spoke, the girl wrenched free of her john, momentarily weakened in his orgasm, and thrust forward onto the bed, lying flat on her belly as ropes of the man’s semen painted her bottom thickly. Finished, he collapsed back on the bed as the whore drug herself off of it, gathering a robe around her and scurrying as quickly as she could out of the room. “Bojin isn’t one to hold a woman after he’s bed her,” explained Petyr. Sansa was speechless. Finally, she whispered,

“Is there any way to keep it from hurting so much?”

**  
“Use your fantasy, like we practiced. Touch yourself before you come to him, and you will be more wet. Always spread your legs as wide as you comfortably can. Better to bear the weight of his thrusts with your hips than with your womanhood. And when you are with Joffrey… think of somewhere safe, somewhere good, while you let him have his way. Know that you always have a friend here, waiting, when you are free of him.”**


	13. Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practicum

She could not do it. She knew. If there had been any cracked door of doubt, the business with the tainted wine and yesterday’s visit to the brothel had sealed it. Just as Lord Petyr had said, men who would drug a girl were worse than any other. _More dangerous than rapers and brutalizers_. And although she could not make sense of how young, thin Joffrey could do the same things to her that she’d seen Bojin do to that poor girl, she had learned well that her only friend was well-versed in the ways of love and lust. Anyway, every time she tried to imagine what it would be like with the King, she got stuck somewhere between disgust and terror, and had to put it out of her mind altogether.

Tonight she’d found her husband asleep again. Drunk on wine and lolling over in the parlor chair in his bedchamber. It had been the same as last night-- only that time, she’d tried, faithfully, to wake him and stayed by his side for a good half an hour before returning, equal parts worried and relieved, to her own bed.

Tonight, she had not waited. She had not tried to wake him, nor had she returned to her bed. Instead, she had climbed the long, dark, winding staircase. She had tiptoed, quiet as a mouse, through the great hall and around the corners. She had let herself in to the unmanned, unlocked chamber, and had found it empty. She’d poured herself a cup of wine from the decanter in the corner. And then another. And another. She liked the tingle it brought to her, the way she could feel its warmth trace down her belly as she swallowed. It made her feel fierce and excited… and something else. It made something spark between her legs. Gave her a need she’d only recently learnt how to meet, and made her think of _him_.

She loved the smell of it here- sweet spices, leather and oak. She’d only been here twice before, once on a small errand months ago, and again last week, on the night that… her bruises were still tender and only just fading into dulled greens and yellows. Sore reminders of the burden she was meant to bear. But that night, she’d felt safe falling asleep on this big bed. She felt safe here again, now. Safe… but anxious. The room was simple but elegant- all green and cream cloth, and oak, and polished silvery steel. Great bolts of that forest-colored fabric hung from the ceiling around the bed, clasped in all four corners with a little silver bird. Oh, how she’d come to love the sight of that little bird.

The door clicked and she stiffened. Smoothed out her sleeping silks. It creaked open, and her breath halted. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering herself. She could do this. She must do this. And she must succeed. There were soft footfalls, and then the sharp shape of him came into view- perfectly clipped and smart, as ever. His robe looked particularly heavy, a dark color of wool was all she could make out in the dim candlelight, and the mockingbird pin at his throat glinted like silver fire. His shadow danced on the wall as he gathered papers on the table at the far side of the room.

“My lord.” Her voice was even softer than she’d anticipated it would be. He froze, his back to her. Slowly, he turned.

“Sansa?”

“Yes.” He spied her in the dark shadows on his bed, and took two steps toward her before stopping. He was no fool; he knew this was not a casual visit.

“What are you--”

“I need your help, Lord Baelish.” He stepped forward again, into the full light of the candles, and she could see that his robe was a dark green, to match the fabric around her.

“I am ever at your service, my Lady.” There was a coyness in his voice. It almost took her off-guard.

“The Queen says I must be with child within the month, or I will stand trial for treason.”

“Yes, I did tell you that in confidence--”

“If I must have a man’s seed in me…” She paused, gathering her courage. She thought she saw the ghost of a smirk play across his lips, but it must have only been the flickering candlelight. She breathed. “... I would ask that it be yours.”

He was silent for only a moment, hands locked together in front of him.

“Sansa, do you understand the implications of this request?”

“Of course I do. I’ve thought about it… my father had dark hair, like you. My mother had green eyes. It wouldn’t be impossible for me to birth a child that looked like you, no matter who I--” There was that smirk again. As if he knew all of this already.

“But, my dear, are you sure you want that?” She took a long breath.

“I must.” But it was more than that, she knew. Not only was it the much gentler, less frightening option… she had found, in considering the possibility, that she actually did want it. Not necessarily the act of consummation- that still scared her to no end, after what she’d seen. But lately, whenever he was close, she found herself lingering in his smell. When his arms circled her, or his hands held her waist, it didn’t feel like the flowery, rollicking love she’d felt for young princes or like the girls’ stories she’d been told by her nurse maids. It was something… darker than that. Something more grown-up, she knew. There was a roughness to him, a sharp edge to his wry smile, a dangerous lure in his eyes, and she longed to be on the other side of it. She felt compelled in ways no story book she’d ever read spoke of, and the thoughts she’d begun to have about him recently were graphic and indecent.

“That isn’t an answer.”

She crossed her legs in front of her, intentionally letting her gown fall up, over her thigh,

exposing it nearly to the hip.

“Do _you_?”

“Your Grace, it is not mine to want.” His words kept him safe, concealed in propriety. But the rough bite in his low tone whispered of lust.

“Yes it is.”

One foot fell in front of the other, slowly, a languid path toward his bed and the girl in it. The index finger of his left hand, outstretched, drug along the surface of the long oak table as he walked and his eyes followed it.

“You are the Queen.”

“And my child will sit the throne.”

_“And if anyone found out-_ -.” He stopped before her.

“They won’t.”

“--It would be my head.”

“And mine.”

She sat up, rolling to her knees. From here, she matched his height. Her hand went to his chest, and he did not move. She splayed her fingers out, palm flat against the thick green woven tunic, tracing what she could now see were ribbons of silver thread stitched throughout. She touched the mockingbird pin, feeling the smooth metal with an intensity she’d never lent it before. It was cool to the touch.

She brought her other hand up to the silver near his throat, turning the finding and flicking the pin open. His collar opened with it. The little perched bird fell into her palm, and she turned it over in her hand, studying. _Steady_. Her fingers closed over it, and her eyes drew up to find his. Hard grey-green was fixed on her, unflinching and inscrutable. She moved forward, slowly, silently. Her lips found his just barely, the ghost of a kiss. At first he did not move and her stomach knotted. But then he did- responding gently, the same kiss. She moved against him slightly again, and he returned the gesture in kind. It felt a bit strange-- she wanted more, but he would not provide it. Her fingers worked open the metal clasps of his tunic somewhat clumsily, as she was only able to see out of the corner of her eye. She pushed it back over his shoulders, and it fell to the floor. Clothed now only in the muslin shift he favored as undergarments, he was still motionless.

She broke the kiss and willed herself to maintain eye contact, hands reaching behind her neck. She pulled at the strings that held her sleeping silks up, and they came unraveled all at once. The top fell, and her breasts were exposed to the cold night. She nearly shivered. His eyes never left hers. Now she found the strings at her mid-back, and those she pulled more slowly. She felt the thin dress collapse on her frame, and knew that as soon as she moved her hands, it would fall away and she would be exposed. Still, he did not respond. It was maddening. She knew the fear and disappointment must be showing in her eyes, and she did not know how to stop it. It was so unfair-- he’d taught her all this, he’d brought her to this point, she was the Queen, she could have any man she chose and she’d chosen him, and now he didn’t even seem to care and…

_The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen._ That’s exactly what she was. _The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen_. Her eyes closed, and the threads slipped from her fingers. She felt the cold night air against her skin. She heard his sharp breath.  She held there for a moment, breathing in his scent, remembering her fantasy, and the way it had felt the first time he’d kissed her, the way his fingers had pushed into her while she lay writhing beside him, the words he’d whispered into her ear about power and desire. The hot buzz of the alcohol in her veins made her fearless in the blackness of closed lids.

When her eyes opened again, they were full of fire. _The beauty. The gatekeeper. The Queen_. She would show him.

“Yes. I do _want_ this.” She sank back onto the bed, lying across the pillows, and spread her legs to show him her nakedness. Her hand snaked around her thigh and found her sex, fingers grazing the lips of it. She began to rub where it felt good, and placed the fingers of the other hand in the same place his had been just several nights ago. She let her head fall back, braided hair pooling behind her, and arched her back. _Don’t be ashamed. Let him see everything._  It took only a few strokes of one hand, while the other explored her bare chest and belly, lingering over nipples hardening from the cold, before she felt the weight of him lower onto the mattress near her feet.  

She rolled her body up off the bed, starting at the base of her spine and moving smoothly until her head snapped forward and her eyes caught his. His gaze was intense, somewhere between possession and fascination. But on his lips, unmistakable now, was a crooked, pleased smile. She liked it. Fluidly, she stood and brought her body around to face him, just inches away, and matched his grin. He reached up one elegant hand, and traced the curve of her breast. He let his fingers turn over, stroking her with the backs of them. Then his hand, and his gaze, began to drop down her chest, lower, to her waist… She stopped him when her fingers lighted daintily on his legs. With soft insistence, she pushed them apart and lowered herself slowly to her knees between them. As she descended, she watched the rise and fall of his chest- his breath sped and shallowed, and his hands gave just the slightest tell of tension as they squeezed the blankets.

He seemed proud as he watched her on the floor. She decided she liked looking up at him- his thin, angular build was much more impressive when there were not taller specimens imposing comparison against him. His features were particularly sharp and handsome from this angle, and his strong shoulders jutted out impressively. _There are men would lie, cheat, steal, betray, die… kill for you._ Which men? Men like him? The thought gave her a crude sort of glee. She began to unbutton the muslin shift that kept him clothed and noticed, quite suddenly, the bulge against the fabric in his lap. It was larger than the one she’d grown accustomed to finding when Joffrey was excited, but she did not feel afraid. She let her hands brush against it as she worked to free him, and felt the slightest shudder go through him. It was warm and smooth to the touch, through the cotton. She felt it grow still harder.

When she finally revealed him, she found herself pleased. He was much larger than her boy-husband, and somehow more… dignified. The man’s had a curve to it, and more girth, and shape, and ridges- but without the grotesque size or bulging veins she’d seen on Bojin. She put one hand on it, gently, and closed her fingers. She looked up at him before moving again, and saw his eyes half-closed, breath coming more shallow now. Her hand wandered his length, letting the pads of her fingers draw lightly over every part of it at once, from base to tip. When she reached the end, he breathed,

_“Sansa….”_ and it was she who shivered. The throaty concession of desire in his voice was contagious. Furiously aroused by the sound of his facade of composure breaking, she felt the want- no, need- to satisfy him. She made a fist and stroked him, as she’d learned by watching Joffrey, with just a bit of pressure. He seemed to like it, but she knew what to do next. _A good lover anticipates the next move_. Her hands abandoned him and she lowered her face to take their place. A kiss, just on the very tip. And the sides. She remembered everything, a perfectly choreographed dance of pleasure. _Lick, from the base to the tip- just under the ridge…. and then, you’ll suck_. As her lips pursed over the very edge of him, he murmured, “Gods….” and shuddered. Encouraged, she engulfed more of him.

The taste of salt filled her mouth, and she recognized the clear fluid that he’d warned her about, and that she’d once tasted from the King. _Let him see you play with it._ So she touched her tongue to the very end of his length, where it issued from, and swirled around the head a bit. She pulled back, letting a heavy drop of it linger and string in the space between their bodies. “Oh, Gods….” He was utterly turgid now, the ridges on the underside of him pronounced, the head straight up in the air.

She took him in her mouth again, this time lathing him with her tongue to wet him, and then fitting her lips around him as deep as she could. She suckled, moved back and forth along his length, and struggled to open her throat to him. It was an urge to please him, but there was more than that as well-- it was also an urge to succumb to him, to let him inside of her and abandon herself.

_Now, what would a girl like you do to a man she wanted to bed?_

She slid her mouth off of him, and stood slowly.  He took in her nude form, gaze crawling up the entirety of her body with a devilish greed. Her eyes watered from her efforts, and she found herself a bit clumsy on her feet from kneeling so long. Still, she tried her best to do as he’d taught her, pressing a hand to his chest as she climbed over him on to the bed and awkwardly straddling him.

Suddenly, he was no longer still. With movements faster and smoother than she understood, he’d untangled himself from her, turned sideways, and laid her on her back before him.

“No,” he growled, “you have done very well til now, but the lessons ended there. I will not take you from behind, or savage you like some common whore. If I have you, Sansa Tully, I will watch your face when I do.” There was something fiercely erotic in the possessive tone he used. It took her a few beats to realize he’d used her mother’s family name, but she didn’t mind. Her father was gone anyway, she supposed. She had more Tully left in the world than Stark.

His mouth came down hard on her, lips pressing hers open. She yielded easily; this was what she’d wanted. A throaty sigh escaped her, into his mouth, as his tongue plundered her. Deep, full pulls on her lips made her utterly breathless as quick, clever fingers feverishly explored every point of her nakedness. The way his hands played over her, it felt natural to spread her legs open on the bed. One finger slid effortlessly into her sex, slick with desire, and he moaned his approval. He rubbed her there and she went still from the pleasure, his hands as deft on her lower lips as his mouth was on her upper ones.

“L-Lord… Bae..lish…” she choked out, and it seemed to spur him. He pushed his finger further into her, and she felt a sharp pain. She inhaled suddenly and he broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her mouth,

“Don’t worry, little sweet. I will go slowly.” His fingers slid out, then back in again, a little deeper, out, and in a little deeper still-- over and over, until the sensation no longer brought a shock of pain. “Good girl.” Then she felt something very pleasurable-- warm, soft and rounded, rubbing against the nub at the head of her sex. She whimpered gently, and one of his hands found the back of her head, knotting gently in her hair. “Do you like that?”

“Y-yes…” Indeed, it was one of the best sensations she’d ever experienced. He rubbed harder, stronger, and she bucked her hips to writhe against him. “Yes!” When she looked down to see what was causing such pleasure, she was somewhat stunned to see that it was the head of his cock, after all, pressed hard against her nub. His hand grasped the shaft, controlling its movements. He rubbed again, this time moving down a little further toward her opening. She liked it. He moved again, and still she bucked in want. He pressed the head of it just between her lips, at the mouth of her womanhood, and paused. Her eyes snapped back up to his face, and found him staring ravenously back at her.

“I am going to fuck you now, my sweet. Don’t be afraid. It will hurt at first, but after a time, it will not.” He moved his hips, and slid into her entrance. It did hurt, he was right. She blinked hard. “Look at me, Sansa. Look at me. We’ll do this together.” Faithfully, she trained her eyes on his. There was comfort in them, and she resigned not to look away. He pushed again a little further, then a little further, just as his fingers had done. This time, however, he stayed where he was every time he buried himself inside her. “Relax. Let me take you. It will feel better if you relax.” She tried, but it was painful. Still, she managed a little. He slid in further. She tensed again, involuntarily-- then thought about it, and made her muscles loosen.

He built up a very slow pace, sliding in and out of her. It did not feel good yet, but it certainly had begun to hurt less. As his movements steadied, his eyes fluttered closed and his jaw went slack, overcome with the sensation. “Gods, Sansa…” It was powerful to know that her body could make him look like that, sound like that, feel like that-- and rather arousing. Her muscles tensed around him, but not in pain this time. His eyes shot open, and he bucked suddenly deep into her, moaning a surprise of pleasure. The resulting pressure, the feeling of him invading places in her that no one, nothing- not even herself- had ever touched, was shocking. He held there, gasping. “You’re so tight… so… so… sweet…you untouched, little, oh….” The hand not entangled in her auburn braid found her buttock, squeezing gently and angling her body to grant him deeper access. She tried her best not to whine, not to let him hear her pain. His eyes blinked and opened again, but he did not see her- he was lost in the sensation of her freshly broken maidenhead. His length plundered her again and again, slowly but deeply, and his face fell against her neck, lips absently kissing her shoulder. He murmured unintelligible things against her skin, and she realized when she thought she understood a few words of it that she was trying to hear him, which meant that the pain had become less absorbing. Indeed, it had lessened-- He was buried in her nearly to the hilt, and she could manage it. “Use your hands,” he was saying.

“What?” He brought his face up so that she could hear him.

 

“Use your hands to rub yourself. Give yourself pleasure. It will hurt less, and… you might…” She wasn’t sure what he meant to end that sentence with, but she obeyed. She brought her fingers up to toy with her nub, and found it felt quite good to do-- particularly when she pushed it against the shaft of him, which sat just beneath it. She rubbed steadily as he moved inside her, gaining momentum. His mouth found hers again, moving in time to his thrusts. She matched her fingers to the tempo as well, and felt that same pleasure that had brought her shaking to a climax several nights ago begin to build. The hand not on her sex fisted in the fabric of the shift on his back, and he stilled, letting her use him to her own end.

Her hand worked so hard she thought it would cramp, and after what felt like hours- but may have only been minutes, there was no telling- the heat she had felt before began to rise in her. Sweat formed on her brow but she did not stop to wipe it. Finally, hips lifted off the bed in exquisite tension, she climaxed, spasming and clutching at him.

“Oh… Oh… _Petyr!_ ” She cried. He grunted, unable to keep still any longer, and began to move before she’d finished coming down. He thrusted deep, particularly painful in her now very sensitive womanhood, and his fingers dug into her arse so hard she knew it would bruise. Even so, she stayed faithfully entwined in him, letting him have what she had, until it was he who began to shudder.

He stabbed into her faster and faster, then was suddenly still. His eyes shut tight, mouth open in a breathy “O”, and his hot seed spurted out of him, filling her, as he called out,

“Oh, Gods! My little... my… my…” he breathed, eyes opening again to see her. “...Sansa.”

He remained inside of her for a few moments, pumping the last drops out of the tip, cock flexing and relaxing within her newly-claimed body. Finally he pulled it out, dripping with creamy lust, and she felt the stuff sliding from her, wetting the sheets between her legs.

“Is… is it supposed to do that?” She asked, suddenly panicking. “Will it work? Will it take if it comes out?” She thrust her hand to herself, trying to scoop what had leaked out of her back inside. He chuckled quietly.

“No, sweet. It is perfectly natural, perfectly all right. If it is to take, it will take.” She breathed.

“So, I am with child now?”

“Maybe.” He rolled over, collapsing on his back beside her. “If every time a man put his cum in a woman she bore him a child, there’d be no whores left in the realm.” He began to pull his shift apart at the buttons, letting the cool night air from the open window across the room blow across the furious sweat they had made together. “In order to be sure that you have my seed, we will have to do that… many more times.” She thought it the appropriate thing to feign disappointment, even though the news gave her a secret happiness.

“I see.” She looked over the bed for her discarded sleeping silks, and her eyes landed on Lord Baelish’s chest. She’d never seen it bare before, and the smooth, deep scar dividing the entire length of it made her breath catch in her throat. “What… what _happened_?” He smiled.

“Oh, old demons. A duel. Gentleman’s challenge. I was only a boy.”

“A boy? Who would do that? What sort of gentleman would cut a boy like that?”

“The proud sort. Staunch and honorable. You know the sort. Much like… your family.” She leant to examine it closer, brow furrowed. “Does it frighten you?”

“No, it just… it makes me sad. Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore, sweet one. Do not worry about me-- it was I who challenged the duel, after all.”

“What for?”

“Oh, I was a stubborn child. There was something I wanted, long, long ago. I thought there would be nothing its equal, nothing to compare to it, that I’d ever find as long as I lived. So I fought for it. I didn’t win.” She was thoughtful for a moment.

“Did you ever find its equal?”

“Yes. And better.” She smiled gently at that. She reached out her hand daintily, and smoothed her palm over the scarred flesh. He did not wince, but looked at her. “If you wish, you may stay here tonight. Unless you would rather I escort you back to your chambers.”

“No--” she answered, too quickly. She regained her composure, remembering to act pensive. “No, thank you. It would be unseemly to walk through the castle at this time of night. People would whisper if they saw.”

“True, true. Well, then.” The man stood up, moving to the little table that held his candles and blew them out, one by one. When he returned to the bed, he peeled the linens back and she slid beneath them. He followed. In the darkness, she ventured a hand out to rest on his skin. To her delight, he reciprocated. She moved still closer, resting against him.

“Lord Petyr?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Did I do well tonight? From your lessons?”

“Splendidly.” She smiled to herself and closed her eyes, breathing the smells of heated passion, spiced musk, mint and the oncoming storm from beyond the window.

 


End file.
